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0 


ARNAUD’S MASTERPIECE 



ARNAUD’S MASTER- 
PIECE^ A ROMANCE 
OF THE PYRENEES 

^ ^ ^ ^ BY WALTER 
CRANSTON "lARNED ^ ^ 





NEW YORK j* CHARLES 
SCRIBNER’S SONS > 
jt jt ^ MDCCCXCVII 




COPYRIGHT, MDCCCXCVII, BY 
CHARLES Scribner’s sons 



r 


CHAPTER HEAD- 
INGS 

THE YOUNG ARTIST IN THE TEMPLARS* 

CHURCH I 

ANGELA IN THE FIELD OF THE POPPIES 9 

THE DAWN OF BEAUTY I 5 

ANOTHER VISION OF ANGELA ... 23 

GAVARNIE AND HUNAUD THE HERMIT 28 
WEDDING MUSIC SILENCED .... 37 

THE DEVOTION OF ANGELA .... 48 

THE BEGINNING OF ARNAUD*S PENANCE 55 

THE CAGOT MAIDEN 6l 

SARANDE*S HOME 67 

A TALK WITH THE CAGOT CARPENTER 73 
ARNAUD*S FIRST PICTURE OF SARANDE 79 
BENAZRA*S STORY OF THE CAGOTS . . 90 

THE CAGOTS* GOOD FRIDAY .... IO3 

ARNAUD*S TEMPTATION II3 

THE STORM AND THE CAVE . . . . II8 

ARNAUD*S CONFESSION 1 29 

THE VOICES OF THE CLOISTER . . . I44 

A LETTER FROM COUNT RAIMOND . .155 

HUNAUD*S LAST WORDS 161 

ANGELA AND COUNT RAIMOND . . . I70 


Chapter again in the templars’ church . 182 

Headings the end of arnaud’s quest . . 188 

ARNAUD PROMISES AN ALTARPIECE . I99 

THE ANNUNCIATION 2O4 

THE picture’s MESSAGE TO SARANDE 209 


ARNAUD’S MASTERPIECE 


THE YOUNG ARTIST IN THE 
TEMPLARS’ CHURCH 

N the church of the Tem- 
plars at Luz sat a young 
man earnestly painting 
some frescos on the walls. 
He was working in the 
fervid spirit that filled the 
painter-monks of his day. 
Monks though they were, they loved 
their art. They thought it a part of their 
religion. It was not frescos alone that 
had been painted by this young acolyte. 
He had helped to adorn many a missal. 

His love of beauty was intense, and his 
surroundings had made him keenly alive 
to what is beautiful in nature, in music, 
and in art. The church where he had 
painted and sung in his youth was built by 
the Templars when they came back from 
the Holy Land, and now in the time soon 
after the second crusade of the sainted 
King Louis it stood there, strong and 
1 I 



TheTounggnmy not a church alone but also a forti- 
Artist fied place, a strong guardian of the pass 
in the that led over the mountains toward Spain. 
Templars^ It still stands on a hill crest in the midst 
Church, of a valley, about which rise some of the 
grandest mountains of the Pyrenean chain. 
Almost all through the summer there was 
the brilliant white of the snow on the 
peaks, seen against the tender blue of the 
southern sky. Always there was the green 
of grass and trees. Not even winter took 
away the color charm from the meadows 
and the evergreens. 

He had seen the rush of the rivers in 
the springtime and the quiet repose of their 
beauty when under the summer sun they 
reflected lovingly the blue of the sky. 

Sometimes great masses of cloud covered 
the mountains, and filling even the valleys 
made the road that winds through the 
gorge toward Gavarnie a mysterious and 
awful pathway leading to realms of dark- 
ness, trembling with the roar of rushing 
water and the moaning of the wind among 
the Pyrenean pines. Amid such scenes 
his cradle had been rocked. When he 
was older the good grandmother would 
take him on sunshiny days out into the 
2 


green meadows in the valley by the river, TheToung 
and while she sat and knitted he ran hither 
and yon, sometimes plucking a flower , the 
sometimes looking with awe upon the Templars" 
glittering mountains all about him, some- Church, 
times fascinated by the swiftly flowing river 
fresh from its fierce rush through the vast 
gorge, and not yet calm with the peace 
that awaits it later after its struggle is 
finished. 

The youth was born an artist with a 
high-strung nature that could be thrilled 
in its depths by the chord of beauty alone, 
but he was also intensely susceptible, even 
at a very early age, to every religious influ- 
ence — most of all, to the music of the 
church. 

His family were Bearnais farmer- folk, 
but these farmers are not like others. 

They are a noble-looking race, and they 
are very proud, resembling greatly the 
Spaniards just across the mountains both 
in character and appearance. 

It was natural that even a peasant who 
came of such a lineage should love the 
beautiful and the poetic, and feel in his 
pride that he could do whatever he wished 
in the expression of all the beauty he knew. 

3 


TheToung^o objection was made when at twelve 
Artist years of age the boy said he wished to be 
in the a painter ; and he went to study with the 
Templars' old monk who was painting in the churches 
Church, of St. Sauveur and in the Templars’ church 
at Luz. 

From such teaching the love of art and 
religion grew together in his passionate 
nature. Would they keep even pace, and 
each holding a hand lead him ever onward 
in perfect serenity toward the highest in 
beauty and the highest in faith ; or would 
one outstep the other and choose his path 
for him, while the forgotten one lagged 
behind ? 

No such question suggested itself to the 
mind of Arnaud de Bearn as he sat paint- 
ing by his master in the church, nor did 
he once think that such a question might 
be asked when he heard the solemn chants 
and joined his voice with the others in 
hymns of praise before the altar. 

The beauty of his colors, the beauty of 
his forms, the beauty of the church, the 
heavenly beauty of the music, the scarcely 
earthly beauty of the mountains and the 
sky, wind-swept with flying, fleecy clouds, 
all filled his very soul to overflowing. 
4 


Surely the Lord is a God of beauty, S2ingTheToung 
his glad spirit. Surely all lovely things in Artist 
nature and in art, in earth and in heaven , the 
hold out their hands to each other, and Templars' 
rejoice in the Creator of all beauty, who Church, 
made them one in their spirit of grateful 
worship to him. 

And so the days of his youth passed on, 
ever filled with a joyous dream and some- 
times with a religious ecstasy. When he 
returned to his home after he had painted 
all day in the church, or wandered among 
the mountains, seeking to find life for his 
palette in their wondrous tints, even that 
humble cottage was glorified. The great 
fire in the room where they cooked and 
ate was gorgeous in color, graceful in vary- 
ing forms of flame and smoke. The 
ancient rafters were soft with the tone that 
comes only with the years. Many an 
artist has loved to paint such a scene. 

Arnaud felt its beauty ; indeed, he was be- 
ginning to know that there was beauty 
everywhere, and that thought made his 
life eager, impetuous, up-springing, be- 
cause of the sensuous joy that was about 
him even when he sang the chants of the 
church. 


5 


TheToung It must have been that very sensuous 
Artist joy which blinded his eyes and deafened 
in the his ears so that he neither saw nor heard 
Templars' the Cagots when they went to worship in the 
Church, chapel whence the high altar might be seen 
through an opening in the wall, but which 
was without other connection with the 
main body of the church. His life was 
destined to have a closer relation to this 
mysterious people, who were separated 
even in their worship from others who 
knelt before the altar, and whose life in 
their mountain fastnesses was neither 
known nor sought to be known by those 
who worshipped within the Templar 
church. This dissonance of exclusion 
had not yet disturbed the harmony of 
that religious chord which had thrilled 
the trembling nerves of a nature sensitive 
in its highest, and also in its lowest point, 
to every color, sound, form, thought, that 
had in it a suggestion of the beautiful. 

Nor did he wonder why the women and 
the men were separated in their worship. 
He did know that the Templar church 
was marred as to its beauty of architecture 
by building a second story, as it might 
well be called, in the nave, — a story sus- 


pended midway in the height of ^^"TheToung 
columns, and having no relation in zon- Artist 
structive thought to the rest of the in the 
church. Templars' 

The reason for this peculiar construe- Church, 
tion had not occurred to him, nor had 
his teacher, the painter-monk, ever ex- 
plained why men and women should be 
kept apart when they came to God’s house 
to worship him, nor why it was forbidden 
to any who loved Christ to come openly 
before his altar, and kneel there in rev- 
erence beside all others who loved him. 

An artist is rarely a theorist. Some se- 
cret of beauty has been revealed to him, 
and to him has been given the power to 
express it, though, alas ! only in part. This 
expression becomes an absorbing passion, 
and he does not wish to analyze it. It is 
enough that he feels it, and there is a 
noble unrest in him because he cannot 
fitly tell what he feels. There is also an 
almost indignant resentment against any 
one who cannot see as he sees, and feel as 
he feels, that throbbing, heart-stirring love- 
liness infusing all the Creator’s works. It 
is this that seems to him alone worth 
striving for. It would be the one supreme 

7 


attainment of life, if any expression of it 
Artist could be attained. 

in the There were days when art was still 

Templar i religion,'' and in such days lived Arnaud 
Church, de Bearn in the Templars' town of Luz 
beneath the Pyrenean mountains, whose 
glittering snow-crests dazzled even the 
eagle eye of the artist wide open to the 
very sun itself if the secret of beauty 
might there be discovered. 


8 


ANGELA IN THE FIELD 
OF THE POPPIES 

-IE artist’s first quest for 
a beauty higher than he 
had yet known, was in its 
purity like that of Parsifal 
when he sought the Holy 
Grail. It was an up- 
reaching for the imma- 
terial, and there was no grossness in 
it. The aim of the pure knight was 
toward what is not wholly of this world, 
nor quite to be seen except by the eye of 
the spirit. The aim of the artist in the 
Pyrenean valley was toward the highest 
and best of beauty in what he saw about 
him, and he wished and prayed that his 
eyes might become keener in their sight, 
his hand subtler in its touch, so that he 
might more clearly see, more fitly express 
those ever new, ever more winning charms 
that seemed to be in everything he 

9 




Angela in looked upon, yet would not yield their 
the Field secrets fully either to his eye or to his 
of the brush. 

Poppies, Surely there must be some reason for 
this failure that came always. Surely one 
who loves with deepest passion all that is 
beautiful must find where beauty's heart 
is, and learn its every throb. If only 
once his finger were on that passionate 
pulse all his after work would be alive, 
beating in rhythm with the currents of the 
very life of beauty itself. 

This unsatisfied passion of the young 
man made him uneasy. He could not 
stay all day in the church painting his 
frescos, illuminating his missals, or talk- 
ing with the simple painter-monk. Often 
he would throw down his brush and pal- 
ette, and rush out into the open air where 
the mountains were about him, and the 
sky lifted his thought even above the 
snow-peaks. 

He grew more and more fond of these 
long walks. Sometimes he went down 
into the valley and followed the stream ; 
sometimes he went up through the gorge, 
and passing the cataracts whose spray in 
the springtime was blinding, he would 

lO 


come to the mountain amphitheatre of Angela in 
Gavarnie, where beings of another world the Field 
played their unearthly dramas on a stage of the 
held mountain high toward heaven. Poppies, 

But even such walks as these, romantic, 
inspiring as they were, did not satisfy him. 

There was a burning restlessness within 
him, and he knew not how to quench the 
fire of it. Its flame was always fed by 
the thought that he surely did not yet 
know the secret of beauty, and could not 
find means wherewith to grasp it. 

One day, his father and mother and 
the old grandmother with whom he had 
played as a child in the meadows by the 
stream, were all seated together in the 
raftered room with the great fireplace. 

The young man had come back from his 
painting in the church, and the longing 
in him had become a torture beyond 
further endurance. He wished to rush 
forth into the world alone, and take no 
rest until he had found that which his 
artist soul craved. 

He left the cottage, giving no reason, but 
saying that he must go away alone, and he 
went wandering through the valley, mile 
after mile, scarce knowing what he sought. 

11 


Angela in His heart was hot within him, and his 
the Field spirit was full of longing. He could not 
of the rest until mere bodily fatigue compelled 
Poppies, him to stop. He was then near the an- 
cient town of Salida, and there he saw a 
maiden whose face seemed to him such a 
vision of beauty as the rising sun gives 
when it touches the world with the ever 
new glory of the dawn. 

What was this woman? In the Tem- 
plars’ church at Luz he never had seen a 
woman except those who came there to 
worship on Sundays, and even they were 
so far away from him that he hardly knew 
that they were there. Arnaud had seen his 
mother and his grandmother, but they 
did not suggest to him any thought of the 
beauty of woman. He loved them devot- 
edly, but they entered not at all into his 
art life. The truth was that neither of 
them was beautiful, though both might be 
at least picturesque to the thought of a 
matured artist. Of the village maidens 
of St. Sauveur and Luz, Arnaud had seen 
but little, because his life from boyhood 
had been spent mostly in the church, or 
among the fields and mountains. He was 
nearly one half monk already and the 
12 


other half painter, but there was a part of 
his nature that was still empty, and aching 
because of its emptiness. 

It was into that unoccupied country in 
his mind, that Angela stepped, as she sud- 
denly rose and looked at him from a field 
at Salida where she had been plucking 
red poppies to adorn her room. The 
brilliant color of the flowers was all about 
her. As the meadow sloped upward be- 
hind her, the red and green of the poppies 
and the grass made a background for her 
face and form. Her hair was of auburn 
touched with gold, and her eyes were blue 
like darkest violets. Her figure, though 
rounded and beautiful in every curve, was 
slender, and not in the least like the fig- 
ures of the village maidens whom Arnaud 
was accustomed to see but who had never 
attracted him by any charm of beauty. 

The artist’s first thought was that one 
of the madonnas he had painted, but could 
not make live, was here before him really 
alive. It was true that the maiden’s face 
was as spiritual in expression as that of 
any madonna, but it was not the spiritual 
part of it that overcame the painter’s 
thought as he stood there in wonder. It 

13 


Angela in 
the Field 
of the 
Poppies, 


Angela in was its womanly beauty. That was what 
the Field he had never seen before. Before that he 
of the stood touched and thrilled, feeling, if he 
Poppies, really felt at all, that his quest had not 
been in vain. His restlessness, his wan- 
derings, were to cease because some god- 
dess had come to tell what he longed 
for, to complete, as he had never dreamed 
it could be completed, that ideal of beauty 
which he had so long sought to grasp, 
but which had ever eluded him. 

In the field on Salida’s hillside, where 
Angela stood in the sunshine holding her 
poppies in her hand, was the turning- 
point of Arnaud de Bearn's life. Sud- 
denly the placid stream of his existence 
had been whirled into rapids. Perhaps 
there were cataracts beyond. Perhaps the 
wild violence of it would not cease until 
at last it found peace in the sea. 


THE DAWN OF 
BEAUTY 


r is the custom of the 
Bearnais folk to greet one 
another when they meet. 
So the young man and the 
young maiden, thus sud- 
denly meeting, sought for 
fitting words, but neither 
knew what to say. Angela was as roman- 
tic in temperament as Arnaud was eager and 
impetuous. The sight of the strong, dark, 
almost Spanish face, with black eyes fixed 
in an ardent though dreamy gaze upon 
herself had affected her strangely. 

It was not embarrassment that made 
them hesitate to speak, for both were as 
simple and natural as children. Arnaud 
was thinking only of the beauty that had 
so suddenly dawned upon his startled 
eyes, and he feared it might vanish if he 
disturbed it by a word. Angela's sur- 

15 



The prise and interest kept her silent too, and 
Dawn of then she was a maiden, and it was not for 
Beauty, her to speak first. 

‘‘ How beautiful your poppies are ! ** 
said Arnaud at last. “ Did you come 
here to gather them ? I never saw such 
beautiful poppies before.'* 

Yes,” said Angela, I often come here 
for them, because it seems to me they 
are brighter in this field than any other.” 

“ Then you must live near by,” said 
Arnaud, and yet I have never seen you 
before.” 

I live in the castle yonder with my 
father. Count Raimond de Moncade ; but 
we have only lived here a little while be- 
cause my father has been away so long 
with the King in his wars, and before he 
went away we lived far from here. The 
King gave him the castle when they came 
home. And do you too live near here ? ” 
My home is in the little village be- 
low the Templars’ church at Luz.” 

‘‘The Templars’ church! Ah, yes, 
my father has told me of that. It is a 
fortress too, is it not? I think he said 
it was a stronghold that guards the pass 
leading over the mountains.” 

i6 


‘‘Yes, it is indeed a strong fortress, but The 
it is the church within the ramparts t\i?LtBawn of 
I love the best, for I do my work there. Beauty, 
and I know that any painter would delight 
in such a place.’* 

“ You are an artist then ? That must 
be a delightful life. I love pictures.” 

“ Alas ! I am not an artist, but I long 
to be one. Sometimes I think I never 
can succeed, however much I try, for the 
secret of art’s beauty always eludes me.” 

“ I wish I could see your pictures. 

May I not come to the church some day, 
and you will show them to me ? ” 

“ I do not think they would let you 
come to the church except on Sunday, 
when the women come to worship there. 

There is a place made for them where 
they sit apart, I know not why. But I 
do not wish you to see my pictures now. 

They are not good enough. I cannot 
bear to look at them myself. I would 
far rather show you one of nature’s pic- 
tures. Have you seen Gavarnie ? ” 

“ No, but I have heard about it. It 
must be wonderful.” 

“It is indeed grand, but it is stern, 
almost awful in its sublimity. Young 
2 17 


The maidens like you would care more for a 
Dawn of tenderer, softer beauty. I know not why 
Beauty, I thought of Gavarnie. It is a long way 
from here, and you are a count’s daughter. 
You would not wish to climb among the 
mountains.” 

“ I have loved the mountains and dwelt 
among them ever since I can remember. 
The steepest paths have no terrors for me.” 

“ Ah ! perhaps then some day you will 
go, but I ought not to ask you to go with 
me. Surely you must be the maiden who 
is to wed the King of Bearn. Your name 
is Angela, is it not } ” 

“ Yes, that is my name ; but why do you 
not tell me yours ? ” 

“ Oh, I am only a poor painter, and I 
did not think you would care to know my 
name, but since you honor me by asking, 
it is Arnaud de Bearn. I wonder that I 
have spoken to you so boldly. Please 
forgive me.” 

Nay, you have said nothing amiss. 
Surely a count’s daughter may love nature 
as well as a peasant girl, and of what else 
should an artist speak unless of beauty in 
nature and in art ? ” 

‘‘ I thank you for forgiving me. If I 


may offer any excuse I can say it was be- The 
cause I saw your love for beauty, that I Dawn of 
spoke as I did. No one who does not Beauty, 
feel for beauty like an artist would care 
for the poppies as you do, and there is 
quick sympathy between those who love 
the beautiful.*’ 

“You do not need forgiveness. Surely 
I spoke as freely as you did, nor do I 
think I did any harm in telling you that 
I was the Count’s daughter, and even if 
I am to marry the King I shall love the 
flowers and Gavarnie none the less for 
that. I am like all the Bearnaise maidens : 

I love freedom, and I mean to enjoy it 
while I may. But now I must go home ; 

I have lingered too long, and I am afraid 
my dear flowers will fade before I can put 
them in my room.” 

“ And I too ought to go, but will you 
not come again to the field of the pop- 
pies ? To-morrow you will want more 
flowers, and if you will let me I will come 
to help you gather them.” 

“Perhaps I will come. I will ask 
my father if I may go to Gavarnie some 
day, for I long to see those leaping cata- 
racts, those grand cliffs.” 


19 


The 

Dawn of 
Beauty, 


“ Ah ! do come. I will be here, and 
may the sun be as bright as it is to-day!’’ 

She turned down the path that led 
through the meadow toward the river, and 
thence went upward toward the castle. 
Arnaud, like one entranced, watched her 
beautiful form until he could no longer 
see her ; then he turned away, thinking to 
take the homeward road, but he wan- 
dered scarce knowing where he went, 
for he saw but one thing, the picture of 
the maiden in the poppy field. He had 
asked her to come again on the morrow, 
that he might see her there, but he did 
not dare to hope that he could see that 
picture again. It was too beautiful to 
be repeated. It never could be as per- 
fect again as it was that summer day. 
Something would come to mar it. Would 
it be the thought of the marriage with 
the King ? What had marriage to do 
with it ? This painter-monk had never 
even thought of marriage. For beauty — 
beauty — beauty his soul longed, and 
here was the beauty of the woman. It 
mattered not if she married the King if 
only he could see her. He longed to 
look upon her because the look brought 
20 


to his thought that secret that only she The 
could reveal. Dawn of 

As he walked on, the poppies Beauty. 
redder than they had ever been. There 
were white daisies. Never before had 
he seen their purity. Birds were sing- 
ing. It seemed as if he had not heard 
their music until now. Surely in the 
clouds there were lovely lines like those 
of her form. Now he began to under- 
stand their beauty, because the living 
beauty of the woman gave life to their 
inanimate charm. At last night came 
on, and still he wandered, lost in dreams. 

He had seen the twilight, the gorgeous 
colors of the sunset melting into almost 
invisible tones of night, like bells, half 
hushed, but pealing faintly the moon’s 
approach. Then came the queen of 
night, and the peaks of snow glistened, 
gleamed — they would have been warm 
if they were not so white. It was an 
unknown land just opening to his sense. 

Why should this touch of womanhood 
make skies and mountains new to the 
sight even as if the artist’s eye had never 
yet seen them ? He knew not why this 
marvel had come to him. He walked as 

21 


The in a dream, far on into the night, watch- 
Dawn of ing the moon until the mountains hid her 
Beauty, chaste beauty; then he rested awhile in 
some peasant's lonely cottage, but before 
dawn he was again awake, waiting for the 
sun to give something of Angela's color 
to the awakening earth. 


22 


ANOTHER VISION 
OF ANGELA 

E knew it would be long 
ere she would come again 
to the field of the poppies, 
even if she came there at 
all that day ; but he could 
not resist the longing to 
see her once again. It 
was not love that prompted him to 
go toward the castle where she dwelt, 
or if it were the beginning of love, Ar- 
naud knew it not. What he felt was 
the artist’s passion for beauty. Never 
before had his eyes rested upon such a 
picture as he had seen for those few brief 
moments, and well he knew the maiden 
was the secret of its loveliness, therefore 
he must see her again. Art would hence- 
forth be nothing unless inspired by that 
face and form, and art was his life. He 
felt he had a right to see her because his 

23 



Another art needed her. If he had not been 
Vision carried away by this passion he would 

of Angela, have remembered that Angela was to 
wed the King, and it was not for him to 
look upon her again, if her beauty had 
such power over him that he could not 
banish the thought of it even for a mo- 
ment. He did think a little of the mar- 
riage, but he knew there was still time 
before that was to happen. The thought 
of it only made the present more pre- 
cious. Afterward he might not see her 
more ; but now she was free to wander 
again among the fields, perhaps even to 
go to Gavarnie. He did not think there 
could be any harm in his seeing her while 
he might, before the King claimed her 
for his own, and then he would paint her 
picture, and her beauty would be always 
near him. Neither Angela nor the King 
should know of that, and if they did 
know, they would be glad that his art 
had found its inspiration. Not even 
seeking to resist this desire to look upon 
her again, he went on toward the castle, 
hoping that he might at least catch a 
glimpse of her if he lingered near it. 

Soon he was beneath the walls of the 

24 


ancient building. Two strong to\^trs Another 
guarded the gate, and between them was Vision 
the drawbridge that had been raised iox of Angela, 
the night and had not yet been lowered. 

On the other side of the castle were the 
living rooms, and one beautiful round 
tower with conical roof rose from among 
them. About this tower some doves were 
fluttering forth to meet the light of day, 
for the first flush of the dawn was even 
now in the sky. Perhaps the doves made 
Arnaud think that this was Angela’s 
tower, and he gazed eagerly toward it. 

There was a window there that might be 
hers. Long he looked toward it, and at 
last the casement was opened. 

Angela had risen early and come to the 
window that she might see the ice-clad 
mountains in warm life again beneath the 
sun’s ardent caress. She stood there in 
all her beauty, and Arnaud looked upon 
her once and put his hand before his eyes, 
for he felt that he had desecrated a sanc- 
tuary by looking upon her beauty half un- 
veiled. The maiden thought not of any 
one near her at the sunrise time, and 
allowed the loose folds of her night-robe 
to fall away from her lovely neck, as she 


Another stood at the window. The robe was 
Vision white, but the dazzling whiteness of the 
of Angela, neck and bosom half revealed beneath it, 
put to shame all other whiteness. 

The grace, the purity, the innocence, 
the passion that might be but was not 
yet alive, thrilled the artist’s very soul. 
Though the maiden in the casement 
thought she was alone even the com- 
ing of the sun abashed her, and as the 
snow mountains were flushed with pink 
at the first touch of the sun’s rays, so did 
a rosy blush come over the whiteness of 
her face and breast as the light fell full 
upon her. Hastily she closed the case- 
ment and began to think about the King, 
who was soon to meet her in the church, 
where she should promise to be his for- 
ever. The artist dreamed of a beauty 
come down from heaven to give new life 
to all beauty that had been before, and he 
wished that his dream might never end. 

Not far away, in his chateau by the 
river, the King was dreaming of the 
maiden whom he loved, and longing for 
that happy day when he could claim her 
for his own. 

King Gaston of Bearn was a noble man 
26 


and a famous soldier. He had been 2i Another 
good ruler over his kingdom, and his re- Vision 
nown was great ; but no happiness had ever of Angela, 
come to him such as filled his heart when 
Angela promised to be his wife, for he 
had loved her at first sight, and his passion 
grew stronger day by day. 


27 


GAVARNIE AND HUNAUD 
THE HERMIT 


NGELA knew that the 
King loved her, but she 
did not know the depth of 
that love, for nothing in 
her own heart could ex- 
plain it to her. She knew 
that he was a great man, 
and she admired him. Her father, whose 
lightest wish she never had opposed, 
wished her to marry him, and she had 
consented, not unwillingly, for surely she 
must learn to love a man so valiant and 
so renowned. Even as she sat there in 
her chamber, after she had closed the 
casement, and thought about the King 
and her approaching marriage, she wished 
none the less to go again to the poppy- 
field and see the young artist, though she 
could hardly tell why. She longed to see 
that wonderful Gavarnie of which he had 
28 



spoken ; but she could not yet promise Gavarnie 
to go there, for her father had not been and 
home when she returned the day before, Hunaud 
and she had not been able to tell Mimthe 
of her wish. Nevertheless, perhaps Hermit, 
would go to the field again. Surely it 
could do no harm to gather a few more 
poppies ; and by and by she went, know- 
ing full well that Arnaud would be there. 

He was there, but the power of her 
beauty had become so strong upon him 
that he trembled at the very thought 
of seeing her again, nor could he believe 
she would really come. This meeting was 
not like the first one, for there was some- 
thing in the heart of each that neither 
wished to tell. She spoke again of Ga- 
varnie, and told him of her father’s absence 
from home ; and she did not conceal her 
wish to go there when her father gave her 
permission. 

They talked awhile together as they 
gathered the red blossoms, and Arnaud 
went back with her to the castle. There 
he left her, but with the hope of seeing 
her soon again, for now that he was sure 
she wished to go with him to Gavarnie he 
felt that her father would not oppose it. 

29 


Gavarnie 

and 

Hunaud 

the 

Hermit, 


When Count Raimond returned, An- 
gela told him of her meeting with Arnaud, 
and what had passed between them, and 
how she longed to see that wonderful 
Gavarnie of which he had spoken. To 
this the Count made no objection. She 
might have the young artist for her guide 
if she wished it, since he knew the moun- 
tains so well, and the Count would send 
with her two of his trusted retainers to 
take care of her. As for himself he would 
gladly go, but he cared little for wild 
gorges, and he had had enough fatigue in 
the wars. He would rather rest quietly 
in the castle. Thus it was arranged, and 
not long afterward Angela and Arnaud, 
with the Count’s retainers, took their way 
toward Gavarnie. 

In the early dawn they went together 
through the gorge — the fearful gorge — 
that must be passed ere Gavarnie can be 
reached. The cliffs towered above them, 
the water thundered below. Its never- 
ceasing struggle with the rocky barrier 
made it more and more impatient. Clouds 
of mist rose from the tortured waters. 
The artist and the maiden were nearly 
blinded by the wind-swept clouds that 

30 


filled the gorge. There had been little Gavarnie 
talk between these two. The grandeur 
and beauty about them stilled speech. Hunaud 
Nor could they think of anything except 
the encircling wonders of nature. The Hermit, 
gorge became narrower and more narrow. 
Sometimes it seemed as if the fortress 
cliffs would not permit another step to- 
ward Gavarnie. They were guarding the 
secrets of their fastnesses. True, the 
stream had broken their guard and was 
rushing toward the valley to tell of the 
giants and their dwelling-place, but man 
should not enter there if they could help 
it. They frowned angrily upon these 
two who dared seek Gavarnie. Nothing 
daunted, the artist and the maiden pur- 
sued their perilous way. The blinding 
mist in the deepest, narrowest part of the 
gorge was passed at last. Higher and 
higher rose the path, climbing along the 
cliff sides. Arnaud and Angela went on 
and on, knowing now that they were 
nearing Gavarnie. 

As they passed beneath a rock that 
overhung the road both saw what seemed 
to be an entrance to a cave. Arnaud had 
never seen it before, and he was eager to 

31 


Gavarnie 

and 

Hunaud 

the 

Hermit, 


explore it. Clinging to climbing plants 
and little trees he made his way at last 
to the dark doorway. He wished to en- 
ter it but he dared not do so, because his 
eyes were so full of the sunlight that in 
the darkness he would surely stumble and 
fall. Startled by the blackness of the 
cave thus suddenly opened before him, 
he stepped back, thinking that when he 
had regained his strength he would go 
again to the entrance and wait there 
beneath its portal, until his eyes became 
accustomed to the darkness that was so 
intensely contrasted with the sunlight. 

Arnaud did not need to wait long. 
While he stood there, trying to penetrate 
the gloom, some one came toward him. 
He did not see this man who approached 
until he reached the very entrance of the 
cave, because all beyond the low opening 
was shrouded with darkness. 

He who came from the cave was so 
emaciated that he hardly seemed to be 
alive, but he wore a monk*s habit and 
the cowl was over his head. Arnaud de 
Bearn was a brave man, but he shrank 
back before this figure, coming from the 
depths of the mountain and looking more 

32 


like one who had died and come back to Gavarnie 
earth for a little while, than like a living 
man. Angela was on the path below the Hunaud 
cave. Arnaud feared for her. He turned 
about and meant to climb down again to Hermit, 
save her from alarm because of this seem- 
ing spectre. It was too late. Arnaud 
did descend the hill, but the monk, if 
monk he were, went with him. 

Until now there had been no word 
spoken, nor could either tell the reason 
for such a strange, unbroken silence. 

Both came down at last to the path where 
Angela stood watching their descent. Ar- 
naud came first to her, and then came the 
weird unearthly creature, who lived in the 
mountain’s depths. As he looked upon 
the maiden he lifted a crucifix, which he 
held in his right hand, and spoke. His 
voice was strange. It did not seem like 
the voice of a man. Perhaps its tones 
had been re-echoed too often from the 
walls of the deep, dark cave that was his 
dwelling-place. 

“ Who is this maiden ” said the monk 
to the artist ; but before Arnaud could 
speak he said, Nay, do not answer, be- 


3 


33 


Gavarnie cause I know. She is to wed the King 
and of Bearn. Her name is Angela.” 

Hunaud The monk looked upon her in sadness 
the and spoke no word for a long time. Ar- 

Hermit, naud did not speak, and Angela was over- 
come with fear, because she could not 
understand why this strange man came 
out of the mountain to stand before her 
and to talk with her. Was he human } She 
did not know. Again the monk spoke : 

“This maiden is about to be the bride 
of the King of Bearn. That can never 
be ; it is forbidden from on high. I say 
no more. The Pope will say what yet 
remains to be said.” 

The monk clasped his hands and looked 
toward heaven in prayer ; then he folded 
his robe about him and put the cowl close 
down over his eyes. Up the steep hill 
he went, and Arnaud and Angela saw him 
no more. 

Angela thought she had seen a vision. 
The cowled anchorite coming from his 
cave far down in the depths of the moun- 
tain did not seem real, but rather some 
unearthly creature. He had spoken but 
a few words and disappeared as suddenly 
as he came. 

34 


Arnaud and Angela walked on toward Gavarnie 
Gavarnie. They were silent. The ^o-and 
rious beauty of the sun-lit, Hunaud 

mountains could not take away the the 
thought of the monk and his words of Hermit, 
ill omen. 

This strange walk together began to 
seem like a dream. Arnaud's vision of 
her in the field of poppies became unreal 
too, like some fairy tale. The marriage 
with Gaston the King began to seem 
unreal, like all else. The artist even 
thought he could not really have seen 
the beauty of the woman half revealed 
in the dawn of the day, that beauty which 
had changed his life. The unearthly 
monk made everything mysterious. An- 
gela did not for a moment think that what 
the anchorite had said ought to change 
her purpose. Her father wished that she 
should marry King Gaston, for he had been 
the King’s chosen captain, and he loved 
and revered his sovereign. She did not 
hesitate, not for one moment. The monk 
might be real, he might be from another 
world ; but she had given her promise to 
the King, and her father had blessed their 
betrothal. Certainly she would be his 

35 


Gavarnie 

and 

Hunaud 

the 

Hermit, 


bride, but she would go no farther toward 
Gavarnie. She was trembling and afraid. 
The mountains were no longer grand and 
beautiful. They were angry. They were 
frowning blackly upon her, and they were 
sheltering below their cliffs the being of 
ill omen who had uttered such terrible 
words. In silence and awe they retraced 
their steps toward Salida, and Angela went 
back to her home, whence she came not 
forth again until her wedding day. 


36 


WEDDING MUSIC 
SILENCED 

N the bright morning 
of the wedding not a 
cloud dimmed the sun- 
shine. The snow-peaks 
glistened with a pure 
whiteness that told of 
the bride's beauty. The 
river laughed and lifted little wavelets to 
gleam like diamonds in the growing light. 

King Gaston, with many lords and ladies 
of his court, came from his chateau by the 
river-side, up through the valley that leads 
to Luz and St. Sauveur. It was a gay 
and brilliant cavalcade, for all were decked 
in festal array, and the bright colors 
of many a plume and scarf and mantle 
gleamed and glowed in the full light like 
living flowers moving on through the 
green meadows by the river’s bank. And 
the hearts of those who rode with the King 
were glad. They knew his valor and his 

37 




Wedding worth. They had seen the humble peas- 
Music ants by the wayside press toward him with 
Silenced, loving gratitude, because he had been a 
good king to them, and had cared for 
even little things that might make their 
hard lives easier. The knights had seen 
him in battle and gloried in the prowess 
of his lance, and the older men, more 
thoughtful, were no less proud of his wis- 
dom in statecraft. With unfeigned re- 
joicing all went with him to the church 
at Salida, where he would meet at the 
altar the bride who was to bless his life. 

As the gay procession neared the sacred 
building the notes of the organ were heard 
within. The organist was dreaming over 
his keys, thinking how he might best tell 
with his music something of the joy which 
was to come that day to the great King 
and his beautiful bride. Hymns of mar- 
riage, hymns of love, anthems of deep 
gratefulness for God’s good gifts were in 
the organ tones. 

The King and his courtiers paused a 
moment to listen, then entered the church, 
and with slow and stately step went to- 
ward the chancel. Count Raimond and 
his daughter, with their retainers, all in 

38 


bridal array, entered the church by Wedding 
transept, and when the King reached the Music 
altar, the Count led Angela to him. Silenced. 

Arnaud de Bearn had gone very early to 
the Templars’ church at Luz. He had 
begun to paint when the sun’s first rays 
touched the ancient walls. What was he 
painting ? He did not know. It was 
what he could not express. He had not 
seen enough. It was something of a 
beauty never known before, but it was not 
understood even now. He had seen it, 
but only for a moment, nor had he ever 
dreamed before that such beauty could 
exist. He forgot his painting, and was 
conscious only of an intense wish to see 
Angela again. To Salida he must go to 
look upon her standing before the altar 
with the King. 

Angela in the church was not the 
maiden whom he had seen in the field 
of the poppies. Her robe was beautiful. 

She wore a circlet of gems, the King’s gift, 
half hidden by her gold-red hair. Her 
bearing was proud and her beauty daz- 
zling. The King stood by her side, — a 
man who had conquered many and had that 
pride of conquest in his mien ; a man who 

39 


Wedding loved his people, and for them there was 
Music a blessing in his look ; a man who loved 
Silenced, his bride and knew what such a passion 
meant. Kind and proud, loving and 
grateful, was King Gaston, as he stood 
beneath the rainbow light of the windows 
with his bride by his side. 

The priests came in their splendid 
vestments. The choristers sang with pure 
voice the music of man and wife. 

What did the artist think as he sat far 
back in the church and gazed upon all 
this splendor? He thought little and 
felt less. This was not beauty to him. 
There was splendor of color, there was 
inspiration of music, but his brush would 
not respond. Angela and the King, as 
they stood there before the altar, beneath 
the light of the glorious windows, made a 
beautiful picture, but he could not paint 
it. It was not possible yet, he knew not 
why. He did not love Angela. He 
did not love any human being in the 
same way that he loved beauty. 

That secret of beauty had been partially 
revealed to him in the sight of Angela in 
the early dawn. He felt then that he was 
profaning a sanctuary, and he closed his 
40 


eyes. There was no reason to close them Wedding 
now. Arnaud had seen marriages before, Music 
many times. They had not been Silenced. 
splendid in color and music as this one, 
but he had cared little about them. They 
did not touch his deepest etnotions, — 
that part of his nature that must be 
touched if art’s goddess was to come 
to his easel. There was another feel- 
ing in Arnaud’s heart that day when 
Angela was to marry the King. He felt 
and he knew that there was a tragedy in 
it. There was no reason to think that so 
beautiful a scene could have anything but 
love and joy about it. Nevertheless the 
lonely artist saw what no one else in that 
thronging crowd of knights and ladies 
could see. He felt that the beauty of 
Angela was not for King Gaston, and 
that those bridal bells so joyously ringing 
would soon change their peal, and chime 
an anthem of deepest sadness. Arnaud 
could not have told why he felt as he did 
feel on Angela’s wedding day. Some- 
thing was revealed to him that he him- 
self could not fully understand ; but it 
must have been a dim remembrance of 
the hermit’s words of ill omen. 


41 


Wedding It was made plain before him more 
Music quickly than he had thought. The first 
Silenced, prayers had been said and the opening 
strains of the joyous marriage music had 
been played, when suddenly there came 
a voice, weird, unearthly, saying : — 

“ I am Hunaud the Hermit. Give me 
entrance here ! I must speak to the King 
and to her who would not listen to my 
words. I spoke to her in the gorge by the 
cataracts of Gavarnie, and told her she 
might not wed this King who loved her, 
because the Pope would not allow it. 
She did not heed me then, but she must 
heed me now lest further mischief befall. 
Let me pass, I say ! I would speak to 
them both face to face.” 

There was a silence as of death over all 
the people. Slowly they fell back, and 
way was made for the tall but bent figure 
of the anchorite, who held on high a 
crucifix. All clothed in deepest black 
save for the white cross on his breast, he 
moved like a spectre among the gayly-clad 
lords and ladies. Not even the light of 
the joyous windows could make his form 
other than a black shadow as he slowly 
moved toward the high altar, before which 

42 


stood the King in his splendor and Angela Wedding 
in her beauty. Music 

The King, indignant, turned from t\iQ Silenced, 
altar to confront this seeming apparition. 

He laid his hand upon his sword-hilt, but 
the monk did not stop. Count Raimond 
sprang from the crowd toward the altar 
steps. He thought a public insult was 
given to his daughter, and as he reached 
her side his sword leapt from the scabbard, 
and he held it protectingly between her 
and the black figure of doom that, never- 
theless, came steadily on. The choristers 
ceased their chants, the organ tones were 
hushed, the frightened lords and ladies 
said no word, though here and there an 
eager warrior half drew his sword. 

At last the cowled monk, in his robes 
of black, stood before the altar between 
the King and Angela. 

‘‘In the name of Christ and of his 
Church on earth, and in the name of his 
Vicegerent who rules us here. Pope 
Gregory the Tenth, I forbid this mar- 
riage,” said the monk, in a low and solemn 
voice. 

“ Who art thou ? Whence comest 
thou ? ” said King Gaston. “ By what 

43 


Wedding right dost thou assume to stay the nup- 
Music tials of a king and his bride ? Speak, or 
Silenced, thy life shall be the forfeit. Art thou 
indeed a priest come from the Pope? 
Thou hast said that thou art a hermit, and 
perhaps thy mind is deranged because of 
long fasting and solitude. Surely thou 
comest not from Rome. Declare thyself! 
Who art thou ? 

“ I come not from Rome, but I come 
with Rome’s message. Mine ears heard 
it in the cave where I dwell down 
in the mountains’ depths where the wild 
water rushes by me and thunders in the 
darkness below. I hear and see many 
things in that darkness that men who live 
in the sunlight do not hear nor see. I 
am a monk, an unworthy follower of Saint 
Peter. If I were worthy I could bear 
this message myself ; but it is given to me 
only to say that the messenger of the Pope 
is at hand. I tell you of his coming, and 
I bid you await it. This much I may 
do. May God grant that evil to come 
may be stayed by my words.” 

“ I will not wait,” said King Gaston ; 
proceed with thine office, holy father.” 

But the bishop was trembling. There 
44 


was something ominous in the look Wedding 
the monk, something awful in his words. Music 
Angela had sunk, half unconscious, into Silenced. 
her father’s arms. Even the bold Count 
Raimond paused, and his sword-point 
sank to the floor. In this frightened 
hush none knew what to say or to do, 
except the hermit, who lifted his crucifix 
on high and said, — 

“ Ye have not long to wait. The 
Pope’s legate is at hand. Even now he 
is approaching the church door.” 

It was true. An embassy had come from 
Pope Gregory X., bearing his decree for- 
bidding this marriage, because the con- 
tracting parties were too nearly akin. 

There was no help, no hope. All then 
knew that resistance was useless. If 
King Gaston disobeyed, his kingdom 
could be put under an interdict and there 
could be no more baptism, mass, marriage, 
or burial in his dominions. Better that 
he and Angela should suffer, than his 
people be thus punished for no fault of 
theirs. 

The King bowed his head before the 
legate and said, “If what thou sayest be 
true, father, we must submit, even if our 

45 


Wedding hearts are broken. I thought not this 
Music relationship was so close as to make our 
Silenced, marriage unlawful.” 

^‘Nor did I think so/' said Count 
Raimond. “ Has it been so decided by 
the Pope himself? ” 

‘‘ Yes, my son, and after careful study of 
the canons, for the matter, as ye say, was 
not free from doubt. Here is the final 
decree in which the reasons for it are 
clearly set forth. My children, ye must 
part here and now ; it would be sin should 
ye remain longer together.” 

The prelate turned toward the assem- 
bled lords and ladies. ‘‘ Go hence,” he 
said, “ and be thankful that your King 
has not been permitted to break the laws 
of Holy Church.” 

Slowly and silently went forth those 
who had come in so gayly. There was 
no music now. The church was quiet. 
With a mute, passionate gesture of fare- 
well the King turned from Angela, and 
with faltering footsteps left the church. 
Count Raimond drew his half fainting 
daughter close to him, and very slowly 
they too reached the door, and turned 
toward their home. 

46 


Arnaud had waited in the dark corner, Wedding 
not following the others, for he wished to Music 
see the end of this tragedy whose shadow 
had been upon him even amid all the 
splendor, the beauty, and the joy. 

The prelate and the monk still stayed 
in the church, praying before the altar 
that help might come to hearts so sud- 
denly afflicted, and thanking God that 
they had been permitted to prevent what 
in their creed was a deadly sin. 

Arnaud in the darkness did not pray, 
nor did he even think clearly. He had 
seen a broken-hearted king, a half fainting 
bride ; but as yet he knew not what this 
strange scene might mean for him, though 
he knew well it meant much, else would 
not his very deepest soul be so stirred 
within him. 


47 


THE DEVOTION 
OF ANGELA 

)UNT RAIMOND 
bore Angela to his home. 
The maiden soon revived. 
The shock had been se- 
vere, but the blow had 
not struck upon the deep- 
est feelings of the heart 
because King Gaston had not stirred pas- 
sionate love within her. Nevertheless, 
she had been shamed before all the 
people. It must seem to them that 
she had been willing to wed the King 
unlawfully, to sell herself to him that she 
might be called a queen. She blushed 
hotly as the thought came to her. Never 
again could she look one of them in the 
face. To them her guilt was plain as 
noonday. They would not remember 
there had been doubt about the lawfulness 
48 



of the marriage. Angela laid her head The 
upon her father’s breast and burst into “^Devotion 
flood of tears. of Angela. 

‘‘ I will see no more of this cruel world, 
never — never again ! ” she sobbed. ‘‘ I 
will go far away where no one shall ever 
see me, for I am shamed. I will hide me 
behind convent walls. No, I will not 
do that ; I will seek another refuge from 
this hard Pope who has broken the King’s 
heart and disgraced your daughter. I 
will make a place for myself and per- 
haps for others who have suffered as I 
have, where we can wait until death re- 
leases us from his baneful power.” 

“ Angela ! Angela ! speak not so. Re- 
member he is our father in God. Be 
not rebellious but submissive. My own 
heart is hot within me, but we must sub- 
mit to Christ’s Vicar on earth. But what 
said you, my daughter, that you would 
do } I do not understand.” 

‘‘ Oh, father, I cannot be King Gaston’s 
wife. I am shamed, and no other will 
wed me. I must live alone. Surely there 
are others who are afflicted even as I am. 

I will go far hence and build a home for 
them and for me. There we can await 

49 


4 


The death, for life as others live it is forbid- 
Devotion den to us. When I have built it I shall 
of Angela, dwell there nor ever go outside its gates, 
until my corpse is carried thence, nor shall 
any others who come within those walls go 
out from thence until Death’s Angel calls.” 

“ Wilt thou indeed do this, my daugh- 
ter ? ” 

I will, I must. There is no hope for 
me in this life.” 

Very soon Angela began the building 
she had said she would build, nor did her 
father oppose her. He felt that it was 
well for her to be where the eyes of an 
unkind world could not see her who had 
been rejected as a king’s bride at the very 
altar. It was not a long time before the 
retreat was finished, and Angela went to 
dwell there. 

Arnaud de Bearn heard what had hap- 
pened. His first thought after he heard 
it was to go to Angela and ask her to 
come to him, but he knew she would not 
come. They thought they did not love 
each other then. Her beauty had charmed 
him. His artistic instincts had fascinated 
her, but that was not the fulness of love. 
Nevertheless, he wished to see her again, 

50 


and this longing grew stronger as time The 
went on. At last he sought to find th.Q Devotion 
place where Angela had built this tomh of Angela. 
for those still living. He did find out at 
last where it was. It was on the bank 
of a river, far from the home of King 
Gaston. 

Arnaud walked about this grim build- 
ing. There were no windows that could 
be seen from without. There was a court- 
yard within, whence came the needed 
light. There were other women who had 
suffered as Angela had suffered, though 
some were separated from their husbands 
or their lovers, because of some other 
reason than a pope’s decree. All these 
women were within the building Angela 
had built. They were not nuns. The 
place was not a nunnery. It was more 
like a prison. The jailer was Sorrow. 

He who must open the gates was Death. 

The place was fascinating to Arnaud. 

He wished to enter the building that he 
might see Angela once again, but he could 
not enter it. In the daytime and in the 
night time he wandered about these strange 
walls with no windows, wondering if he 
might not at last find some opening and 

51 


The see there in the moonlight the exquisite 
Devotion form that once before had been revealed 
of Angela, to him. Here was the passion of his 
artist’s love. See Angela he must. He 
could not paint unless he saw her again. 

Fortune favored him, and he did see 
her again. Some houses near the place 
of her retreat chanced to take fire. There 
was a high wind. The flames were 
threatening Angela’s building. No one 
within those gloomy walls had spoken a 
word. No door or window had been 
opened. The people of the town knew 
that there were many noble women behind 
those dark walls, and it seemed to them as 
if death must surely come to those within, 
and come quickly. The Archbishop of 
Lyons was in the town. The fright- 
ened people had begged him to come to 
their aid. He came, and when he saw 
how sure was death’s approach to those 
within the silent walls now touched by 
the wind-swept flame, the good man went 
as close as he could to the threatened 
building. He called aloud, — 

“ Angela,” he cried, "" I absolve thee 
and all those who are within from the 
vows ye may have taken. Come thence, 

52 


and come quickly, for surely ye will per- The 
ish in the flames ! ’’ Devotion 

Then Angela came to the little dooY^ of Angela. 
which she opened widely enough to speak 
to the Archbishop. 

“ Most holy father, we are here to await 
death. It matters not if it come by the 
flames. If it seems to you better that we 
should not perish now, pray that the 
flames may be extinguished.*’ 

The Archbishop looked in wonder upon 
the door that Angela was shutting. He 
knelt, and Arnaud knelt beside him. Their 
prayer was the same : it was a passion- 
ate pleading that those women might not 
die in the fury of the flames. It was an 
appeal to a higher power that the fire 
might be stayed before those devoted ones 
should perish. While the priest and the 
artist knelt and prayed, there was a change 
of wind. The danger was past. The 
furious fire soon lost its power because the 
newcome wind drove it back toward 
the ruins of the buildings it had already 
destroyed. The priest and the painter 
rose from their knees, and looked toward 
the home of Angela. Might they see her 
again ? The artist longed for the vision 

53 


The of her form, the priest wished to bless her 
Devotion and to thank her for her devotion. He 
of Angela. also to tell her that the people of 

the town had been inspired by her words 
and deeds, and had been thereby brought 
nearer heaven. But Angela did not come. 
She had gone to her cell and fallen upon 
her knees in prayer. Thence she came 
not forth until long after the Archbishop 
and the artist had departed. 

When the fire was over, and there was 
no further danger to the building, no one 
could enter. The retreat was sacred. The 
beauty of Angela was there entombed. 
Never again could the artist see it or 
know aught of it. Was there another 
woman so beautiful as was Angela, when 
he saw her in the early dawn of that day, 
never to be forgotten, when he had come 
to her home and looked at her as she 
stood by the window ? 


54 


THE BEGINNING OF AR- 
NAUD’S PENANCE 


RNAUD’S first thought 
was that he would enter 
the retreat by force and 
bring this woman out, 
that his eyes might be 
delighted by her beauty, 
and his art inspired by 
the charm of her lovely form and glow- 
ing color. He was stayed by the Arch- 
bishop, who laid his hand upon Arnaud’s 
shoulder and said, — 

“ Wherefore desirest thou to enter 
there ? ’’ 

“ I wish to see Angela,” replied Arnaud. 

“Why dost thou wish to see her.^” 
said the Archbishop. 

“ Because she is beautiful.” 

“ My son, what hast thou to do with 
her beauty ? The King Gaston thought 
her charms were for him, but the Pope 

55 



The Be- decreed otherwise. No other man can 
ginning of possess the beauty of Angela, for she 
ArnaucTs awaits death in yonder building.'' 
Penance, “It is not that ! Oh, it is not that ! 

Oh, father, I never even loved her, nor 
did she love me, but she was an inspira- 
tion to me in my art. Never until I saw 
her did I know what beauty was. Never 
before could I even see where in nature 
itself was the secret of beauty which I 
longed for, but could not find. I wanted 
to see her, I wanted to learn those lovely 
lines of her form, those charming living 
colors, so that I might paint madonnas 
for the altar, that might live in a beauty 
like hers. I cannot see her — I cannot 
see her. Was it wrong, O father, that 
I wished to see her? How could I help 
wishing for the sight of that beauty ? I 
longed to make it imperishable with my 
brush and put it over the altar, that those 
who love the Madonna might see how 
she must have been when she was a 
maiden, chosen to be the mother of our 
Saviour. Was it a wrong thought? It 
did not seem wrong to me. Alas ! where 
again can I find another so beautiful as 
Angela ? " 

S6 


My son, I fear your thoughts have The Be- 
not been wholly about Angela’s ginning of 

I greatly fear that you have been tempted Arnaud's 
to love her, and to love her unlawfully, 
when she was betrothed to another.” 

“ It is not true, father ; or if it is true I 
did not know it, nor do I know it now. 

I longed to see her, but I did not long 
for anything more. What madness has 
come over me ? Surely she is not the 
only beautiful woman. What can I do ? 

What must I do ? If I am in sin, let me 
confess and give me absolution. If I am 
not, give me advice. Help me to do 
rightly, for I am confused and in doubt 
about my duty.” 

My son,” said the Archbishop, ‘‘ I 
fear that thou art in sin, and if thou 
knowest it not, it behooves thee to seek 
solitude that thou mayest have time for 
thought and thus come to a true knowl- 
edge of thyself. Get thee hence to the 
mountains, which are not far from thine 
home. Stay there and commune with thy 
God, and look upon his works which 
will there surround thee. Wait until thou 
hast regained calmness by prayer and self- 
restraint, and then thou shalt find that se- 

57 


The Be- cret of beauty which thou desirest, that 
ginning of thou mayest use it for the adornment of 
ArnaucT s the sanctuary, and for the help of those 
Penance, who wish to worship in purity and peace.” 

I will go,” said Arnaud,“but whither?” 

“ Knowest thou not some place far 
among the highest mountain-peaks to 
which thou canst go ? ” 

‘‘Yea, I know one such place that I 
have heard was near the mountain-tops, 
but I know not where it is nor whether 
there are people there. Perhaps some may 
dwell there, but there cannot be many.” 

“Go there, my son. Take my bless- 
ing and my prayer that God may deliver 
thee from sin and make thee fit to do the 
work he wishes thee to do.” 

Without another word Arnaud left the 
holy father, to seek the mountains, as he 
had been bidden to do. But where was 
this place ? Arnaud knew little about it, 
but he had heard that somewhere, far up 
the mountains, there dwelt a mysterious 
people. It was their home he meant to 
seek. 

He went toward the mountain-tops, 
where he had never been before, although 
he had been in the habit of walking about 


his own home and even going as far as he The Be- 
did when he met Angela. But what 'wcvQginning of 
these mountain fastnesses to which he Arnaud' s 

banished? Was there one there to Penance, 
a word of comfort to him ? Could he find 
there any inspiration of beauty for his art? 

He wandered on almost aimlessly, except- 
ing that he wished to come to the place 
where the Archbishop had said all might 
be well for him. Arnaud hardly knew 
how to reach it, but he did know that the 
strange people who dwelt among those 
mountain-tops were called Cagots, and 
there was a very good reason why he 
could not easily find their home, for to 
the place where the Cagots lived no one 
went. It was even forbidden to tread in 
the footsteps of these people. Yet he 
was forced to go among them against his 
will, because the Archbishop had said that 
he must go. At this time it seemed to 
Arnaud’s mind that the Archbishop was 
in the right. Later he thought he was 
altogether in the wrong. 

He never had thought of the Cagots, 
and knew nothing of them except from 
the tales of the Templars and the monks. 

There were not many who knew about 

59 


The Be- them. There ,are not many now. Per- 
ginning of haps there are none who really know. 
Arnaud! s They are a mysterious people. But Ar- 
Penance, naud de Bearn had known something of 
them ; he had heard of them while he 
painted in the church. Why could they 
not come in there where he sat with the 
Templars at the mass ? Was he better 
than they ? Such thoughts filled his mind 
as he toiled up the steep roads, and at last 
came far up among the mountain-peaks. 
There among the snows and the glaciers 
dwelt this people. 


6o 


THE CAGOT 
MAIDEN 

) Arnaud approached the 
dwelling-place of the Ca- 
gots, he met a young 
woman who was going 
along the road to her 
home. 

“Will iyou please tell 
me where the Cagots live ? said Arnaud. 

“ Stand back ! she answered. “ You 
are in danger of your life.” 

“ But, why ? surely you could not hurt 
me, and you look too kindly and lovely 
to lead me to any harm.” 

“ Kindly and lovely ? ” said the girl. 
“ What do you mean by such words ? 
Full well I know that you and those like 
you could find no loveliness in a leper.” 

“ You are no leper. Speak not of such 
things. Who said you were a leper P ” 

6i 




The 

Cagot 

Maiden, 


“ I do not know. Some say we are 
lepers; some say we are Jews; some say 
we are Visigoths, and there are others 
who think we are Moors.” 

‘‘ I do not know,” said Arnaud, “ but I 
want to find out. Will you show me 
where you live ? Lead on, I will follow.” 

Follow me ! Did I not tell you that 
could not be ? ” 

But why ? ” 

‘‘ Because you do not want to be a 
leper. You do not want to be tainted by 
our corruption.” 

‘‘ There can be no corruption about 
you. I fear it not. Lead me to your 
home. I would rest, for I am very 
weary.” 

It was not strange that Arnaud should 
be willing to follow so beautiful a creature, 
even if there were danger in being near 
her. Her hair was black, her color deep 
and rich, and her form was supple and 
full of grace in every curve and move- 
ment. Her dress was gay with tints warm 
and bright like those the maidens wear in 
the valleys of Andalusia. How strange 
to find such brightness amid the ever- 
lasting snows ! 

62 


Suddenly there flashed before Arnaud's The 
eyes two pictures. One was the maiden Cagot 
of the tropics, with her splendid coXot^ Maiden, 
her flashing eyes, and the almost barbaric 
richness of the garments that were about 
her form, outlined against the cold, white 
purity of the snow-mountains with the 
pale blue of the sky behind them. The 
other picture was that of the lily-white, 
gold-crowned maiden, ethereal as a dream, 
outlined against the almost tropical splen- 
dor of the red poppies and the vivid green 
of the grass, so bright that sometimes it 
nearly yielded to the sunlight’s yellow. 

It was strange that the voluptuous 
beauty should be amidst ice and snow, 
while the other loveliness, ideally pure, 
was surrounded by almost dazzling splen- 
dor. There was a deep meaning in the 
contrast of these two pictures that had 
more to do with the future of Arnaud’s 
life than he dreamt of at the time. He 
saw the two pictures as by a flash of light- 
ning, but he was too tired to reason about 
them, or even seek to know their meaning 
for himself. 

The maiden went onward timidly, still 
half afraid to let a stranger come near her 

63 


The because she knew it was forbidden. Never 

Cagot before had she even had speech with any 

Maiden, who were not of her own race. Her 

mind had been narrowed by constant re- 
pression, and her pride, even her self- 
respect, had been humbled, crushed by 
the never-changing contempt and loathing 
that all felt for her except her own people. 

The handsome stranger was kind to 
her. He spoke pleasant words. He 
did not fear her — nay, he asked her 
help, and wished to go to her own home 

and rest there. The girl's heart beat 

quickly, but she mastered her rising emo- 
tion. She went along the path, and 
Arnaud followed her. 

As they went upward the scene became 
wilder and wilder until at last they came 
near to the snow line. Here was a valley 
almost surrounded by the white peaks, 
and in its midst on the bank of a stream 
that rushed out from the snow were some 
rude cabins clustered close together, as 
if seeking warmth from each other like 
sheep when the storm comes on. 

“ That is our home," said the girl. 

“ Oh, how thankful I shall be to rest 
there,” said Arnaud, gratefully. 

64 


Following the stream, they soon reached The 
the door of the humble home. Cagot 

wonderful were the surroundings of t\{\s Maiden. 
simple cabin ! The snow was like silver, 
gleaming beneath the sun’s touch, but 
it was restful in its purity, though daz- 
zling in its whiteness. The great rocks 
held it in their arms. Brown giants they 
were, fondling and guarding the innocence 
and purity given to their care. There 
was rich color in these rocks, and its con- 
trast with the white suggested the bril- 
liant picture of the Cagot maiden with 
the snow-fields behind her. 

Among the snows and peaks lived this 
strange people. Banished from the world, 
almost banished from the church, they 
had found enough here to sustain life, 
generation after generation. It was pos- 
sible in the summer time to give sheep 
and cows pasturage. It was possible even 
at that great height to raise beneath a 
summer sun enough in their gardens for 
their simple needs. 

Let me go to your home, let me 
go quickly,” said Arnaud. I am very 
tired.” 

“ I know not whether my father and 
5 65 


The 

Cagot 

Maiden, 


mother will welcome you. We are out- 
casts, shunned by all. How can we feel 
kindly toward others? But father and 
mother are not like others ; they are gen- 
tler, because they are old and have learned 
to be patient. Before we enter I must 
tell you my father’s name and my own, 
for if you did not know our names you 
could not come under our roof. There 
are few to whom the Cagots tell 
their names, for they are as proud as 
those who shun them. My father’s 
name is found for generations back in 
our history. It is Benate, and mine is 
Sarande. You may enter now,” said the 
maiden, lifting the wooden latch and open- 
ing the low narrow door of the cabin. 


66 


SARANDfi’S 

scene within was like 
the interior of a peasant’s 
cottage in Bearn, except 
that the room was smaller 
and the ceiling lower. 
There was a large fire- 
place, and the old mother 
sat beside it, carding and spinning wool. 
The father was mending a rude wooden 
plough which he meant to use in his 
garden the next day. There were some 
children playing before the fire. 

The old man and his wife looked up 
almost frightened when they saw a 
stranger enter. They feared some dan- 
ger, because few ever approached the 
Cagot homes with a good purpose. It 
was indeed a startling thing to see any 
one not of their own race come to their 
firesides. The old man did not show his 

67 


HOME 



Sarand'e 5 fear however, but only surprise, while his 
Home. wife looked with most curious interest 
upon the young artist, whose like she had 
never seen before beneath her humble 
roof. 

‘‘Sarande,” said the father, “knowest 
thou the name of this young man, and 
why he comes among the banished peo- 
ple who are hated and shunned by all ? ” 

“ I found him alone among the moun- 
tains. He was weary, and asked to come 
here to rest. He will tell thee himself 
why he has wandered so far. I know 
not, for we talked but little by the way. 
I could not but pity him, father, even 
though none pity us.” 

‘‘Young man,” said Benate, “forgive 
this questioning about one who seems to 
seek a refuge among us. It is an un- 
heard of thing. Tell me why you are 
here.” 

“ You asked the maiden if she knew 
my name. It is Arnaud de Bearn. I 
am a painter, or rather I wished to be 
one. I have been painting in the Tem- 
plars’ church at Luz, and I wandered from 
there to find something beautiful, that I 
might paint it.” 

68 


‘‘ What do you mean by painting, Sarande s 
young man? I do not understand your 
words/’ 

“ Oh, father,” said Sarande, “ I think 
I understand. You know the bright 
colors we have seen near the altar in the 
Templars’ church where we looked from 
our chapel through the opening in the 
wall toward the chancel ? Those must 
be paintings, and this young man has 
covered those walls with them. You 
know you said they were beautiful.” 

Ah, yes, I remember now, but I did 
not know they were called paintings ; and 
did you really make those bright colors 
and beautiful pictures on the walls about 
the altar ? ” 

‘‘ I did make them, with the help of the 
painter-monk my teacher, but they are 
not beautiful. They are of little use. I 
have not learned my art, for the living 
secret of beauty has not fully come to me 
yet. I long for it and I hope for it and 
I seek for it. Because of that seeking I 
am weary. Will you give me something 
to eat, for I am faint ? ” 

Willingly, my son, but you will find 
poor fare here ; only some milk and soup 

69 


Sarande s can we give you. Sarande, make ready 
Home, what we have for our guest.” 

The maiden, nothing loath, hastened to 
bring some soup that was made from vege- 
tables, and brown bread, and some milk; 
nay more, her interest in the weary painter 
made her look a little further in the scanty 
larder, and she found some eggs, which 
she cooked for him over the big fire. 

Arnaud was cheered by the simple but 
real courtesy shown him by them all. 
The children whom he had seen when the 
door was opened, had hidden in dark 
corners when they saw the stranger, nor 
had they made a sound since he had come 
in. But now, when they saw him eat and 
drink as they did, they were sure he was 
not a monster, and they came nearer to 
him. Arnaud felt he was in a home full 
of love, like good homes he knew, al- 
though men shunned it and it had been 
forced to the mountain fastness, and almost 
buried in the snows just above its roof. 
The scene was indeed most picturesque. 
Even the tired eyes of the worn painter 
could not but see the beauty of it. There 
was great dignity in the white-haired man, 
as he sat in the firelight, doing his work 
70 


even while he talked with the ^Xx^iXvgtr.Sarand'e's 
There was dignity and love, too, in tYitHome, 
woman working with the wool that others 
might be warm when winter came. There 
was the central beauty of Sarande. All 
glowing and splendid she stood there with 
the firelight playing about her, now light- 
ing her eyes, whose flash was more bril- 
liant than the leaping flame, now touching 
her cheeks and brightening the soft rich- 
ness of their color, and then bringing out 
with brilliant light here, and deep shadow 
there, the perfect lines of her form, supple 
and strong like those of a child of nature, 
whose life was amid the cliffs and the 
woods and by the bank of the wild tor- 
rent. And there were the children, now 
clustered together near the others, no 
longer afraid but hushed by a certain 
awe, a strange feeling they had not known 
before. They were all beautiful, with that 
wild, half barbaric color and expression 
which made Sarande so charming, so over- 
powering in the effect of a beauty utterly 
unlike any that is seen among the usual 
abodes of men, but is to be sought with 
rarest wild-flowers in dangerous and dis- 
tant places in solitude and in freedom. 


71 


Sarand'es Arnaud was too weary to paint, or he 
Home. would have begun at once upon a picture 
so full of splendid color. 

“Young man,*’ said old Benate, after 
they had talked a little longer, “ I fear 
you will find your bed little better than 
your supper, but you are over-tired, and 
will sleep, I know.** 

Arnaud thanked them most warmly for 
their hospitality, and the bed, rude as it 
was, seemed to him that night as soft as 
eider down. 


72 


A TALK WITH THE 
CAGOT CARPENTER 

RNAUD awoke with a 
feeling of strangeness, 
not remembering for a 
few moments where he 
was, and arising, flung 
open the wooden shutter 
that he might see in the 
morning light the grand mountains above 
him. The great peaks were in the full 
splendor of early dawn, when sky and 
snow and glacier are all irradiated by 
the sun's first rays. Not yet was the 
valley in the sunlight, but the rushing 
stream reflected here and there the 
brilliant tints above, until it was lost in 
the depths of a great forest which had 
climbed up the mountains as far toward 
the snow as it dared to go. It seemed a 
wonderful, mysterious wood, and Arnaud 
longed to be in its shady depths and listen 

73 



A Talk to the voices of the wind in the tree-tops 
with the and the stream among the rocks. 

Cagot Truly the place of banishment the Arch- 

Carpenter.\>\^\\^o^ had chosen began to seem most 
attractive. It was by no means a place 
of penance. The glowing mountains and 
the splendid beauty of the Cagot girl had 
filled Arnaud’s artist-soul, and he knew 
that he could paint here. 

Soon he sought the room with the great 
fireplace, and there the family had already 
gathered for the morning meal. Arnaud 
was cordially welcomed and asked to share 
their black bread and milk. The meal 
was a simple one, but the early morning 
air of the mountains whetted the appetite, 
and Arnaud ate heartily. 

‘‘Young man,'’ said Senate, “are you 
rested, and do you feel no ill effects from the 
great strain you went through yesterday ? ” 
“ Indeed, I feel well. The weariness 
has passed away. This bracing air gives 
me new strength and vigor. I was going 
to ask if you would be my guide to that 
great forest which begins at the end of 
the valley. I saw it from my window 
this morning, and it must be wonderfully 
beautiful." 

74 


“Indeed it is/’ said Benate; “but I yf Talk 
fear I cannot go with you to-day, because with the 
I have work to do. I am building 2iCagot 
house for a farmer far down in the valley. Carpenter, 
Sarande will guide you; she knows the 
woods far better than I do. You can go, 
can you not, my daughter ? ” 

“Yes, I can go,” said the maiden, “if 
the younger ones will take care of the 
sheep and the cows this morning.” 

“We will,” said the little ones, eagerly, 
for they were glad to do anything for the 
handsome stranger who had fascinated 
them the night before. 

“ I will gladly accept your guidance,” 
said Arnaud, “ and I long to see those 
glorious trees as quickly as we may.” 

“ I shall soon be ready to go,” said 
Sarande. 

“ But, Benate,” said Arnaud, “ you 
surprise me when you say you are build- 
ing a house for a farmer in the valley, 
because both you and the maiden told 
me last night that you were of a banished 
race, and that others would have nothing 
to do with you. Is the farmer you speak 
of also a Cagot ? ” 

“ No, my son, he is not. It is true 

75 


A Talk that we are banished and shunned by all, 
with the but we are allowed to ply our trade, be- 
Cagot cause others have need of the Cagot 
Carpenter, carpenters and builders, who are the best 
hereabouts and do their work more cheaply 
than others. It is thus we earn such 
little money as we need. Nevertheless, 
even when we are working our patrons 
do not approach us. They hold com- 
munication with us from as far away as 
they can go and still have their voices 
heard. Thus they tell what they want. 
The bargain is made, and when the work 
is done the money is left for us at some 
place agreed upon.’' 

“ But, Benate, how do they know you 
are Cagots when you come among them 
and work on their houses like others ? ” 

‘‘ Have you noticed this upon the front 
of my blouse ? ” said the old man, point- 
ing to a rude representation of a goose’s 
foot made with yellow wool. 

“ I did indeed see it,” said Arnaud, 
“ and I wondered what it meant, and why 
you chose so curious an ornament.” 

‘‘You could not guess what it means,” 
said Benate, “ but I will tell you. I can 
speak quietly about it because I am old, 

76 


and have learned patience. It means thatvf Talk 
they think we are unclean, foul, and needw/V^ the 
more bathing than others, therefore they Cagot 
make us wear this badge, in a bright color Carpenter. 
which you can see from a distance, and 
avoid approaching us.’’ 

“ What dastardly treatment ! ” said 
Arnaud, hotly. “ It is mere wanton 
cruelty, for surely they cannot be so ut- 
terly ignorant as not to know what you 
really are.” 

Alas ! my son, we hardly know our- 
selves what we really are. That is one 
of our greatest burdens. Our origin is 
lost in mystery, or at least preserved only 
by tradition. They say our name comes 
from the words ‘ Chiens ’ and ‘ Goths.’ 

We may be ‘ Dog Goths,’ the unworthy 
descendants of the defeated Visigoths, 
who lived in Spain. But some say that 
is not true, and claim we are children of 
the Saracens, whom the great king Charles 
Martel defeated, and there are some who 
say we are Jews, and that our name comes 
from the word ‘ Capo.’ I think that 
means ‘ to steal,’ but the Cagots are not 
thieves. Those that most despise us 
think we are really lepers, and the curse 

77 


A Talk of Gehazi, Elisha’s servant, is upon us. 
with the We know not, my son, but we do know 
Cagot that we are banished and called unclean. 
Carpenter, It is hard to live thus, and it is not strange 
that many of us are sullen and desperate, 
giving back hate for hate, ready to turn 
against our oppressors if only we were 
strong enough. These are the young 
men ; those who have grown old in these 
mountain solitudes, have learned to love 
them and to be content with the simple 
life that is lived among them. I have 
talked too long, I must go now to my 
work.” 

“ I thank you, Benate, for telling me 
this strange tale. Let me do what I can 
to make your life pleasanter. I owe you 
much for your kindness, and would help 
you in any way that I could.” 

I thank you,” said the old man ; ‘‘ it 
is pleasure enough to have one under our 
roof who does not despise us, but treats 
us like human beings.” 

The old man rose, and went slowly 
down the road to his day’s work in the 
valley. 


78 


ARNAUD’S FIRST PICT- 
URE OF SARANDE 


r was not long before Sa- 
rande came, ready for the 
walk in the woods. She 
had wrapped a red scarf 
around her luxuriant 
black hair ; there were 
bright colors in her close- 
fitting jacket and short skirt. Her face 
was flushed with excitement, for never 
before in her life had this maiden's com- 
pany been sought by any one not of her 
own race, and now she was to take this 
handsome stranger to the beautiful forest. 
As Arnaud looked upon her, he wondered 
how it was possible that the strange things 
the old man had just told him could be 
true. Surely a creature so exquisitely 
beautiful could not have sprung from what 
is unclean and leprous. Surely it could 
not be believed that any one would shun 
what had for him an overpowering charm. 

79 



Arnaud's 

First 

Picture 

of 

SarandL 


They went into the brilliant sunshine 
and breathed eagerly the keen, crisp air, 
that was enough in itself to set the pulses 
leaping, even without the glorious beauty 
of the scene about him. They followed 
the road that led by the side of the stream 
toward the trees, which had come up as 
far as they dared toward the snow-circled 
valley. The girl was busy with her own 
thoughts, which were so pleasant that they 
made her afraid of herself, and she became 
shy and reserved, which was not at all her 
wont. Arnaud’s artist-soul was full to 
overflowing with beauty. He could not 
feel at all, but only see and wonder at the 
ever-changing pictures of the mountains 
and the maiden, the stream and the trees. 

Soon they entered the forest, and the 
pines of the Pyrenees rose about them. 
Sometimes the trees stood thickly together, 
so close that the sun could not pierce their 
deep green foliage, that arched over cool 
shady places loved by the soft moss that 
covered the rocks, loved too by the doves 
who dwelt there, and whose tender cooing 
made the air tremulous with love. Some- 
times they stood like sentinels about some 
little glen, green as an emerald, with its 
8o 


turf touched by the sun and watered hy ArnaucT s 
the rivulet that rippled through it on its First 
way to join the river. These were th.^ Picture 
loveliest places, for the tender blue of the of 
sky over-arched them, and far away to^- Sarande, 
ered up a great peak all glittering with 
sunlit ice and snow. The birds loved 
these places too, and they sang their 
happy love-songs among the tree branches, 
where their nests were. The beauty of 
music now added its charm to that of 
color and form. There were not only 
the gay and the tender bird-songs, but 
there were also the voices of the breeze as 
it played among the branches, — low, mur- 
muring, caressing, and soft, like sighings 
of happy lovers ; and there was in 
the distance the sound of rushing water 
that came from where the river was leap- 
ing among the rocks. It was a dream 
of beauty and passion, called forth by 
nature’s enchanted wand. 

Here Sarande became quite herself again, 
for she was at home. She forgot her shy- 
ness and gave herself with utter abandon 
to the loveliness about her. She played 
among the trees as a child would. The 
birds were not afraid of her. Even the 

6 8i 


Arnaud*s 

First 

Picture 

of 

Sarande, 


doves fluttered about her and seemed to 
know that she was like one of them, a 
true child of nature. Arnaud thought, 
‘‘ God is not unkind even to these ban- 
ished people. With lavish hand he 
spreads among them the most glorious 
beauties of his creation.” 

Let us go a little farther,” said Sa- 
rande, gayly. “ I know a little pool near 
the river bank that is far more beauti- 
ful even than this bright glen. Come, 
follow me, and catch me if you can.” 
Laughing merrily, the girl sprang from 
rock to rock with the grace and agility of 
a chamois. 

Arnaud tried in vain to keep up with 
her. He was almost afraid to lose sight 
of her, for she seemed like a bright 
bird, that might at any moment fly into 
the forest depths and be no more seen. 
At last she paused and looked back at 
the artist, who was laboring with such 
poor success to follow in her flying 
footsteps. 

He reached her at last, and the girl was 
good enough not to laugh over-much at 
his clumsiness. Now they were at the edge 
of that pool of which Sarande had spoken. 
82 


Truly It was more beautiful than the ^tnArnaud^s 
because of the added charm of the water. First 
A part of the river, tired of always Picture 
fighting with rocks, had turned aside of 
toward the forest and sought rest 2imoxi^SarandL 
the trees. Here it made peace with the 
rocks, and they too were peaceful. They 
clothed themselves with the tenderest of 
green moss and came to the edge of the 
calm water, which gratefully caught and 
reflected their hues of living green. And 
over the rocks leaned the trees, seeking 
also to greet the water, and the water 
looked gratefully up to them and reflected 
their foliage, almost yellow with the vivid 
sunlight ; and even the sky, though so 
far above, sought the little pool, and the 
trees made room for it and held back 
their branches a little, so that the water 
might see the tender blue that looked 
down upon it and mingle its hues with 
the green of the moss and the leaves. 

There were ferns of maiden’s hair, with 
dew diamonds sparkling all over them, 
and there were flashes of color, red and 
yellow and blue from brilliant wild- 
flowers. Sarande herself was the most 
brilliant flower of them all. As she 

83 


Arnaud's sprang from rock to rock, she seemed 
First like a tropical bird, and the pool reflected 
Picture her gay colors and mingled them with 
of the other beautiful tones. They blended 

Sarande, perfectly. The Cagot girl was a part of 
nature’s picture. 

Arnaud was seized with a desire to 
paint her there as she stood on a rock 
that overhung the pool. He had brought 
a box of colors with him, and he begged 
the wayward girl, who was in the mood 
for a frolic, to stay still where she was just 
for a few minutes that he might paint 
her. She consented after a while, and 
came as near as she could to standing 
still, for a much longer time than she 
liked. She became very impatient at last, 
and would not stay another minute, but 
the time had been long enough. The 
artist’s skilful hand, inspired by this rare 
beauty, had caught the spirit of it. Sa- 
rande was amazed. 

How did you do that ? Why ! that 
is my own self, and there are the trees 
and the moss and the sky and the ferns, 
and you had only that little box and a 
piece of paper.” 

“ Nay, Sarande, I had the thought of 
84 


beauty and the sight of it. Only what isArnaud's 
beautiful makes pictures.’’ First 

“ Let us go home, for I want Picture 

and mother to see this.” of 

“Yes, we will go, for indeed we h.2iy Q,Sarande, 
lingered long here in this enchanted 
forest, but not nearly long enough. I 
have only had a glimpse of its beauties. 

Surely we must come again, and I will 
paint another picture and we will stay all 
day long and watch the changing lights, the 
sun’s golden gifts, each lovelier than the 
last, from the rosy dawn to paling twilight.” 

Arnaud could not have found again 
Benate’s home, but the girl seemed to 
know every tree and rock, and sure as 
an Indian on a trail, she led him again to 
the road by the river bank that led to the 
Cagot village. 

As they entered, the old mother looked 
up from her knitting. She had sat there 
by the fireside all the morning, and a stock- 
ing nearly ready for the winter’s cold bore 
witness to her steady toil. 

“ Oh, mother,” said Sarande, “ has 
father yet come home ^ I have some- 
thing to show him. I want you both to 
see it together.” 


85 


Arnaud' s ‘‘ No, my child, he comes later, for his 
First work is long to-day, almost as long as 
Future mine. But you, you must be very hun- 
of gry, for you had not your soup at mid- 

SarandL day, and that is wrong. You took nothing 
with you, and you must be faint, for you 
have eaten nothing since early morning. 
Sarande, there is still soup in the pot; 
heat it and eat, and the children will bring 
milk. They were glad to watch the 
cows to-day, for they knew you were 
happy.” 

Sarande blushed and turned her head 
away. Well she knew why she had been 
happy, but she dared not confess the 
cause even to her own beating heart. 
She turned toward the fire and swung the 
pot over the red-hot coals. Soon the 
simple but wholesome meal was ready, 
and the two who had been wandering in 
dreamland were glad to partake of it, for 
they were tired, though they knew it 
not. 

Then they rested awhile and talked 
sometimes in low tones of the beauties 
of the forest and the mountain, of the 
sparkling river, the green glen and the 
quiet pool and the music of the birds' 
86 


love-songs. At length the shadows h^-Arnaud^s 
gan to lengthen, and they saw Benatei^/rj/ 
coming slowly and wearily up the ro2id. Picture 
The old man was glad to be refreshed with of 
some of the hot soup, and soon he began Sarande, 
to ask what they had done and how they 
had liked the wood, and whether they 
were weary with long wandering in it, and 
by many questions showed his kindly in- 
terest in all their doings. When he was 
quite rested, Sarande, in triumph only 
half concealed, brought Arnaud's sketch 
and showed it to the wondering old man 
and to his wife, who wondered more than 
he did, for she did not know the bright 
colors on the walls of the Templars' 
church as well as he. 

‘‘ So this is a picture," said Benate. 

Really it is wonderful, for there is 
Sarande, and there are the trees and 
the rocks and the water of the pool. I 
know the place well, but I never thought 
there was any one who could thus bring 
such beauties again before my eyes." 

‘"Oh, Benate," said Arnaud, “it is 
only a little thing, quickly done, not 
worth giving you ; but if you like it, 
please take it and put it here on the wall 

87 


Arnaud's near the fireplace, so that it may make 
First you think of the poor painter whom you 

Picture helped in his trouble, as you sit here and 
of mend your tools.” 

SarandL Soon Sarande put the sketch on the 
wall, and the old man and his wife looked 
at it and were pleased. No artist had 
ever before hung a picture in a Cagot 
cabin. 

There was more pleasant and kindly 
talk, but the old man was weary, and at 
last he yielded to the warmth of the fire 
without and the soup within, and began 
to nod in his chair. His wife’s knitting- 
needles began to lag a little and at last 
fell upon her lap, and she too slept in 
peace. 

The evening came on slowly, for the 
twilight lingered long after the sun had 
gone behind the mountains. Arnaud 
wandered out alone to the river bank and 
dreamily watched the fading tints of the 
sunset reflected by mountain and stream. 

He had heard the sound of bells com- 
ing nearer and nearer, and there was the 
laughter of children. The younger ones 
were bringing home the sheep and the 
cows. One had been more daring than 
88 


the others, for this was a day of adventure. Arnaud's 
He had set a net in a little pool whenF/>j/ 
he went out in the morning, and as Picture 
drew it up he found some trout. How^ 
proud was he to bring them to the SarandL 

and mother and the stranger ! That 
evening they would have a good supper. 

They did indeed, and when it was over 
they did not linger long before going to 
seek the rest that all needed. 


89 


BENAZRA’S STORY OF 
THE CAGOTS 

JiE next day Benate 
went early to his work, 
and Arnaud could have 
no further talk with him 
about the history of his 
people. 

The artist’s curiosity 
had been greatly excited by what Benate 
had said, and he wished to know more 
about this extraordinary race who seemed 
to have lived for generations as they 
were living now, utterly proscribed and 
hated, and all apparently because of the 
blackening power of a lie which no one 
could or would refute. 

“ Sarande,” said Arnaud, after the old 
man had gone, is there no one in the 
village who can tell me more about your 
people than your father told me yester- 
day ? I want to know more about them.” 
90 



‘‘Yes/' said the maiden, “there is 2iBenazras 
very old man, much older than my father. Story 
who lives in a cabin even smaller than of the 
ours on the other side of the stream. He Cagots, 
is quite alone, and too old to leave his 
home. Indeed, he is almost helpless, and 
the neighbors have to take care of him ; 
but he is very wise, — oh, so wise ! Some 
call him a wizard, because they think he 
knows more than a mere man ought to 
know. The children are afraid of him. 

I never dared go near his cabin when I 
was little. Even now I am half afraid.” 

“ Do not be afraid, Sarande, for you 
know there can be nothing to fear ; but 
take me to him, for I would talk with 
him,” 

“Yes, I will take you there, but I 
cannot tell why you wish to know so 
much about us poor Cagots. Nobody 
ever cared before, or even thought about 
us except to be sure we never came near 
them.” 

“ That must be because they never 
saw you, or your father or your mother. 

Take me to your wizard's cabin, Sarande. 

Will you go now ? ” 

“ I am ready,” said the maiden. 

91 


Benazrds They left Benate’s home and walked 
Story among the cabins, which were clustered 
of the quite closely together along the bank of 
Cagots, the stream, until they came to a little 
bridge rudely made of tree-trunks and 
planks roughly hewn, which reached from 
the bank to a rock in the middle of the 
river, and thence to the other side. The 
frail structure swayed a little in the 
wind that came from the rushing water, 
and they were wet with the spray from 
a foaming cataract not far from the 
bridge. Nevertheless, they came safely 
across, and Sarande laughed as she shook 
the drops from her hair, and leapt from 
rock to rock up the steep bank, until 
they found the path that led to the cabins 
on the other shore. There were not so 
many of these, and some were quite far 
up on the mountain side. The farthest 
away of all was that of the wizard. This 
seemed so lonesome that it was no won- 
der the children would not go there, even 
if they had not feared the wizard himself. 

They came at last to the low door of 
the cabin. In spite of the boasting that 
she was not afraid, now that she was no 
longer little, Sarande hesitated before she 
92 


knocked, and she might have run Benazr a s 
if she had not been ashamed because Story 
Arnaud was there. With flushed cheeks (t/* the 
and eyes brightly defiant of her fears she Cagots, 
knocked on the door. A low voice 
answered, “ Enter,” and they stood within 
Benazra’s home. 

Before the fire and very near to it, was 
seated a man of great age. His snow- 
white hair fell upon his shoulders. His 
shaggy eyebrows overarched black, pierc- 
ing eyes, that seemed to retain still much 
of the fire of youth. His aquiline nose 
and prominent cheek-bones and his very 
dark skin clearly betokened one of the 
children of the Moor. His hands were 
still clasped upon a knotty stick, on which 
he had been leaning forward from his 
chair and looking into the fire, until he 
had raised his head at the sound of the 
knocking and turned it toward the door 
to see who was coming. 

‘‘ Who comes to see Benazra ? ” he 
said. 

“It is I, Sarande, the daughter of 
Benate, and I bring Arnaud de Bearn, 
who wishes to talk with thee,” said the 
maiden, timidly. 


93 


Benazrds ‘^Ye are welcome. Benate I know. 
Story and I also remember thee, Sarande ; but 
of the why dost thou bring the young man ? 
Cagots, ‘‘He will tell thee himself. Speak to 
him, Arnaud.” 

“ Benazra, I have come because I wish 
to know more of your people. I was a 
wanderer exiled among your mountains, 
and Sarande and Benate have been kind 
to me when I was weary and faint with 
hunger. I had not thought to find such 
kindness among the Cagots, and at first 
Sarande herself did not wish me to follow 
her, because she said she and her people 
were called lepers. I see that this cannot 
be true. Will you tell me why such 
cruel things are said of you ? 

“ Has not Benate told thee, young 
man ? ” 

“ He has told me much, but I want to 
know more.’’ 

“Ah, yes, I see. They think old 
Benazra knows more than they, and that 
is true, for when I was young I tried to 
find the truth among the many traditions 
of our people. I think I found it, and 
even in my old age I have not forgotten 
it. You wish to know why we are called 
94 


lepers. It is a long story, but I will tell Benazrd s 
you if you will sit by the fire, for it Story 
always cold here, and it is lonesome. Theo/' the 
fire is warm and cheerful.” Cagots, 

They found some rude chairs and drew 
them near to the old man. Sarande sat 
on one side, Arnaud on the other, while 
he told his tale. 

“We are called lepers because the curse 
of Gehazi is thought to rest upon us. 

You remember that when Naaman the 
Syrian came to Elisha and was cured of 
his leprosy, the prophet’s servant Gehazi 
followed Naaman, seeking the reward 
which Elisha would not take. Therefore 
it was said the leprosy of Naaman clave 
to Gehazi and his seed and was never to 
depart from them. Now, Damascus in 
Syria, where Naaman dwelt, was the chief 
city of the great Sultan, and it was from 
there that he sent forth his armies when 
they went out to conquer Africa, and 
afterward Spain. The story of Naaman’s 
leprosy, which had fallen upon Gehazi, 
was never forgotten, and all people be- 
lieved that the Moslems who came from 
Syria, warriors of renown, conquerors 
though they were, were tainted with lep- 

95 


Benazra s rosy, and there was great fear of them 
Story because of this as well as on account of 
of the their valor. Now, when Spain was sub- 

Cagots, dued, the ambition of the Saracen knew 

no bounds and he thought to overcome 
all Europe. Therefore Abdirama led his 
hosts against France. They took pos- 
session of all the passes of the Pyrenees 
and spread themselves over the land ; but 
Charles Martel defeated them, and they 
were driven before him like chaff before 
the wind. Not all came back to Spain. 
Many remained here, scattered among 
these mountains. They were hated by 
the people, and there was talk of killing 
them all ; but at last it was decided that 
they might live if they would become 
Christians. This they did, and after pro- 
bation as catechumens they were baptized. 
These Saracens who had become Chris- 
tians were known in Navarre and Bearn 
as long ago as the year looo after Christ, 
and they have lived here ever since.’’ 

The old man paused a moment, and his 
eyes flashed fire as he thought of the in- 
justice that had been done to his race. 

Arnaud said, ‘‘ But, Benazra, I cannot 
understand why the people could not see 
96 


that you were not lepers when you came Benazras 
and dwelt among them and were Story 

into their church.” of the 

‘‘ Young man, you little know the power Cagots, 
of prejudice. Nothing could make them 
believe there was not a taint of leprosy 
about Saracens. In many places they 
even called them Gezitains, which name 
comes from Gehazi. Nor was it true that 
the people ever knew much about us, for 
the catechumens who are preparing for 
baptism are separated from baptized 
Christians. This separation endured with 
us even after baptism, partly because of 
the hate of the Saracens, and partly on ac- 
count of the invincible fear of the taint of 
leprosy. Therefore they would not come 
near us, and they even made laws which 
forbade us to mix with them. Once it 
was ordained that we should not walk bare- 
footed on the street, and if we did not obey, 
our feet were to be pierced with a hot iron.” 

“ I understand, Benazra,” said Arnaud. 

“Yet I remember that Benate said he was 
not sure your people were Saracens. He 
said that some called you ‘ Chiens Goths,’ 
and that your name of Cagots came from 
this.” 


7 


97 


Benazra s “ That could not be,” said Benazra. 
Story “ The Goths were a noble race. There 

of the was never any taint of leprosy about them. 

Cagots, The Saracens may have been called ‘ dogs ' 
or ^ chasers ’ of Goths in derision, because 
they had boasted they would drive the 
Goths before them, and instead had been 
defeated themselves. Besides, it is well 
known that the term ‘ Cagot ’ is one ex- 
pressing insult and contempt, and might 
well be used by an insolent conqueror 
toward the foe whom he had crushed.” 

‘‘ Benate also said that some thought 
you were Jews,” said Arnaud. 

Alas ! it is true that many have thought 
so and think so still, and because of that 
suspicion horrible crimes have been at- 
tributed to us, which we never dreamed 
of committing; but there is no truth in it. 
In the laws of Charles the Bald some Jews 
were called ‘ Capi,’ which is a word that 
comes from the name of the sparrow-hawk, 
and was applied to them because they 
were usurers and thieves, and seized every- 
thing within their reach. From the simi- 
larity between ‘ Capi ’ and ^ Cagots ' came 
the idea that we were Jews. The igno- 
rant people in their hatred would believe 
98 


every evil thing that could be said of us. Benazra s 
Thus they have always treated us. Ah ! Story 
would that we were strong enough ! of the 
Gladly would old Benazra teach them Cagots, 
how to avenge themselves.” 

Again the old man's eyes flashed. Pa- 
tience had not come to him in his age, 
as it had to Benate. Long had he brooded 
alone over the wrongs of his race, and 
the passion for vengeance even now 
blazed so strongly within him that he 
rose from his chair, and trembling with 
excitement, shook his knotted stick in 
wrath, as though he would strike a foe. 

Sarande was terrified, and shrank away 
from him ; but she was soon reassured, 
for in a moment he sank back in his chair, 
utterly exhausted. It seemed as if he 
would faint, but his brave spirit soon 
nerved him again, and he said as calmly 
as before : — 

‘‘ What I have told you is true. Can 
you look at Sarande and doubt it ? Surely 
you can see that she is a child of the 
South. The blood of the Moors is in 
her veins. And what do you think of 
me ? Am I a Goth or a Jew ? Oh ! why 
do they not understand } ” 


99 


Benazras Arnaud looked upon them both. Their 
Story ancestry was written in their faces. In 

of the the old man was the fire of Saladin. In 

Cagots, the maiden was the sensuous charm of 

one of Mohammed’s houris. It was 
true, Saracens they were, though bap- 
tized, both of them, in the Christian 
church. 

But now the old man’s strength was 
quite gone. Even the excitement of his 
passionate wrath could sustain him no 
longer. He sank back again in his chair, 
and his knotted stick fell upon the floor. 
Sarande feared he would die, and she was 
greatly terrified. Not for worlds would 
she have been near the wizard when he 
died, for there were fearful stories whis- 
pered about, that the devil would come 
for his soul, which had been sold to Satan 
for the supernatural wisdom he had given 
Benazra. Even now the king of evil 
might be near. With trembling steps she 
sought the door, nor could Arnaud re- 
strain her. Her fears were not to be 
quieted, and she could hardly breathe 
until she was in the open air. Arnaud 
followed her and tried to reassure her, 
and at last he succeeded in so far that 


lOO 


she became calm again, but nothing would Benazra's 
induce her to re-enter the cabin. Story 

Wait for me here then,” said \iQ,of the 
“ I cannot leave the old man thus. YitCagots, 
is not dead, I think, only exhausted and 
fainting. I must revive him.” 

Oh, Arnaud, do not go back there. 

It is an unholy place. Would that we 
had not entered his home ! Evil may 
come to you unless you flee from the 
devil. He may be there even now.” 

I am not afraid. The poor old man 
has gone beyond his strength in doing me 
a service. I must help him as best I 
can.” 

Arnaud re-entered the cabin. The old 
man still lay there motionless, with closed 
eyes, and his face was weirder even than 
before as the flickering lights and shadows 
from the fire played over its stern and 
rugged outlines. There was some wine 
in a jug on the table. Arnaud moistened 
the closed lips with this and bathed the 
forehead with cool water. At last Ben- 
azra opened his eyes, and it was not long 
before he was quite conscious again ; but 
he did not seem to remember what had 
happened, and sat there looking into the 

lOI 


Benazras fire just as he had been doing when they 
Story came. 

of the Arnaud rejoined Sarande, who welcomed 

Cagots him with a cry of joy, for she had feared 
the devil might take him too, when he 
came for Benazra’s soul. They found 
the neighbor who took care of the old 
man and sent her to the cabin to see if 
he needed anything, and they went slowly 
back to Benate’s home. 


102 



THE CAGOTS’ GOOD- 
FRIDAY 

lOT many days after the 
visit to Benazra they were 
all talking together in 
the evening as they sat 
around the great fire. 

To-morrow,” said 
Benate, ‘‘ will be Good 
Friday, and we must go to the Templars* 
church. I know not whether you would 
care to go there with us, you who have 
painted its walls so beautifully.” 

“Yes, father,*’ said Arnaud, eagerly, 
“ I will go.” 

“ Listen, my son,” Benate said. “ It is 
my duty to tell you yet more of our pain- 
ful story. When I talked with you about 
it before, I did not say that there are those 
who think there is a bad odor about us 
that can only be removed by Christian 
baptism. They have a most horrible 

103 


The thought about it, which comes from their 

Cagoti belief that we are Jews ; for they say that 

Good a baptism in the blood of Christian chil- 

Friday, dren killed on Good Friday will remove 

this taint from us, and that therefore we 
seek such blood on Good Friday, as the 
Jews have been known to do. Ah, God ! 
Ah, Saviour ! that such hideous things 
should be said of us ! For this reason 
we are hated and shunned on Good Friday 
more than on any other day. Neverthe- 
less, we must go to the Templars’ church, 
because it is a tradition of our race, a 
sacred one. We dare not disobey the 
teaching of our unwritten but binding law. 
But, young man, you need not go with us. 
There is no need. I warn you there is 
danger in so doing.” 

“ Is Sarande going with you ? ” said 
Arnaud. 

Yes, my son, she must go.” 

“ And is your wife going also, old and 
feeble as she is ? ” 

She must go, Arnaud, as long as she 
is able to walk.” 

And you think that I should be afraid 
to go where a maiden and a weak old 
woman are going ! I fear you think but 
104 


little of my courage. I should be far less The 
than a man if I feared to go with them. Cagots' 
I will go where Sarande goes, and I will Good 
protect her in danger, if danger there Friday, 
so far as I may. When do you leave 
here ? ” 

‘‘Very early in the morning, for the 
walk is a long one, and we must go by 
little paths among the woods and rocks, 
for on that day the high-road is utterly 
forbidden to us.” 

“ I shall be ready,” said the young man. 

Sarande had been sitting in a dark 
corner, shuddering while her father told 
Arnaud of this Good Friday horror, the 
darkest of all the evil things that were 
told and believed about her race. Never- 
theless, there was no fear in her, and if 
there had been, it would have vanished 
when she heard Arnaud's words and knew 
that he wished to care for her, if she were 
in danger or trouble. 

On the morrow, very early, the Cagots 
began gathering before Senate’s house, 
for he was the patriarch of the village. 

The old and young, even the lame and 
the feeble ones who could walk at all, were 
there. They were clad in sombre garb, 

105 


The 

Cagots 

Good 

Friday, 


for it was their day of sadness and humili- 
ation. If there had been Jewish blood 
in them they would not have thus kept 
Good Friday. Slowly and silently they 
went forth in a long procession, following 
a little winding path that led among the 
woods and the rocks down through the val- 
ley and then up the steep hill, on whose 
crest stood the church of the Templars at 
Luz. It was a weary walk and a sad one. 
The old and the feeble were well-nigh ex- 
hausted when they reached the ramparts 
that surrounded the church. On hands 
and knees they crawled through a low 
opening in the wall, which was their only 
entrance to God’s house, and passing 
the little court-yard where lay the bones 
of many a dead Templar, they entered 
by a small door the little chapel that 
was set apart for the use of these de- 
spised ones. Here they knelt in silence 
on the stone floor and prayed. One after 
another in turn they rose and looked 
through the little opening in the wall of 
the choir, through which could be seen 
the high altar, now draped in deepest 
black, and the bier of Christ before it with 
its black pall, all lighted by the candles 
io6 


alone, for black curtains shut out the The 
light from the windows. The solemn ser- Cagots' 
vice went on. The priests chanted, the Good 
Templars responded. The candles Friday, 
extinguished until there was light only on 
the altar. The Cagots did not dare join 
in the worship. They were not to lift 
their voices in praise or prayer in this 
church of Christ. They were to think 
it a great boon that they could come in 
silence and secrecy as near to the altar as 
was their dark chapel. At length the 
service was over. The Templars, in their 
black robes with a white cross upon each, 
went slowly forth and sought their cells. 

The priests remained long kneeling in 
the darkness in silent prayer. 

The Cagots went slowly out, and cross- 
ing once more the court-yard, crawled 
again through the hole in the rampart 
and sought the steep and narrow path 
that led down to the valley. They 
thought they had escaped notice, but alas ! 
it was not so. There were some boys 
playing on the rocks above them. Sud- 
denly there was a cry, “Ah, see! Ah, 
see 1 There are the monsters 1 Oh, they 
would kill us 1 It is Good Friday, they 

107 


The want our blood ! They will come and 
Cagots kill us ! ” The children ran shrieking 

Good toward their homes. Their parents thought 

Friday. at once the Cagots had attacked them, 
perhaps killed some of them that they 
might have their blood baptism. Infuri- 
ated, they caught up stones and rushed to 
the edge of the precipice above the path 
along which the Cagots were moving 
slowly. With the strength of madmen, 
they hurled the stones, and they rolled 
rocks down the steep hillside. The fright- 
ened Cagots fled as well as they could, 
seeking shelter among trees and behind 
rocks, but many were grievously hurt 
before they could find a refuge. Their 
supposed uncleanness was really their best 
protection, for the angry people dared 
not come near them for fear of contagion. 

Arnaud was protecting Sarande as well 
as he might, putting himself between her 
and the flying stones. Some struck him, 
but he cared not so long as she was un- 
hurt. Suddenly she reeled and nearly 
fell. A stone had struck her in the cheek. 
In a moment she was faint and bleeding, 
and she would have fallen from the path 
and down the steep and rocky hillside, 
io8 


had not Arnaud caught her in his arms. The 
Scarce conscious of the weight he was Cagots^ 
bearing, he rushed along the path until he Good 
came to the shelter of the wood. Thtro, Friday, 
the stones could not reach them. There 
were no pursuers, and he could rest a 
moment. Sarande had fainted. He must 
carry her to the river. It was not far. 

There he could bathe her bleeding wound, 
and the cold water would bring her back 
to life again. 

The strong man had need of all his 
strength before he reached the river bank 
and gently laid the maiden, still uncon- 
scious, on the grass, while he went to get 
water. Sarande was not badly hurt. The 
cold water soon revived her. She began 
to breathe naturally, and at last sat up and 
looked about her with bewildered eyes. 

“ Where am I ^ Ah, I know, those 
devils nearly killed me. It was you who 
brought me here. You have saved my 
life. I wonder if I have strength to get 
home. It is a weary way.” 

“ I will help you,” said Arnaud ; “ take 
courage.” 

The strength of this maiden of the 
mountains began to come back to her. 

109 


The She rose to her feet, but Arnaud had to 

Cagots^ support her or she would have fallen. 

Good He feared she would not be able to reach 

Friday, her home without more help than he could 

give alone. None of the other Cagots 
was in sight. Each had protected him- 
self as well as he could, and those who 
were unhurt were now far on their way 
toward their own village. 

Arnaud nerved himself for a great ef- 
fort, for he knew that without his sup- 
port the girl, brave as she was, could 
never reach her home. He put his arm 
around her and she leaned her head on 
his shoulder. Thus he half carried her 
over the steep parts of the path. Several 
times she almost fell, but her strong will 
overcame the faintness, and she went on. 
She even began to step with a firmer 
tread, but still she did not lift her head 
and still his arm was around her. Thus 
they went through the paths of the wood. 
At last the strength of the man and the 
bravery of the girl were rewarded. The 
home was in sight. They would soon 
reach it now. They struggled along with 
renewed courage, and with nearly all the 
power he had left, Arnaud opened the 

I lO 


cabin door and bore Sarande within, laid The 
her down on the floor, put a pillow under Cagots' 
her head and then sank down himself. Good 
utterly exhausted by the long strain Friday. 
muscle and nerve. The reaction was so 
great that for a long time neither was con- 
scious of anything, save that the struggle 
was over and they were safe. They did 
not even know that the cabin was empty. 
Neither Benate nor his wife nor the chil- 
dren had come home. Arnaud at last 
overcame his weakness, but Sarande lay 
perfectly still. She was too weary to 
move, but she asked for food. There 
were some embers still in the fireplace, 
and there was soup in the pot. In a 
little while Arnaud made the fire and pre- 
pared some food. Both partook of it, and 
were soon warmed and strengthened. But 
where were Benate and the old mother? 

Arnaud thought both must have been 
killed by the stones or overcome by fear 
of the murderous mob. This was not 
true. Benate knew the mountains well, 
and he knew the danger when he heard 
the first angry cry of the boys. Without 
the loss of a moment, he pushed on with 
his wife and children toward a great 

1 1 1 


The rock near the edge of the wood. Thanks 
Cagots to his quick action they reached the shel- 

Good ter in time to escape the flying stones, but 

Friday, Sarande was not with them, nor was the 
artist. Senate waited until the storm of 
stones ceased, and then he went back to 
seek his daughter. Some of the Cagots 
had been killed. Their bodies lay in the 
path. The wounded had crept away to- 
ward the forest. 

Trembling and sick at heart the old man 
looked among the dead, but his daughter’s 
body was not there. He searched long, 
but could find no trace of her, and at last 
in despair he returned to his wife and 
little ones. With slow steps they went 
along the path, and at last, utterly wearied 
and sick at heart, they entered their cabin. 
The joy of seeing their daughter there 
safe, though wounded, and the artist too, 
unhurt though pale and weary, was so 
great that Benate for a moment almost 
forgot the terrors of this fearful day. The 
first care of the mother was for Sarande’s 
wound. She dressed it skilfully and 
quickly, and was glad to find it was not 
severe. 


1 12 


ARNAUD’S TEMP- 
TATION 


HE gratitude of the old 
people to Arnaud was un- 
bounded, and from that 
time they felt for him a 
tender affection, almost as 
they would feel for a son 
of their own. After a 
few days of quiet, Sarande’s wound was 
healed and the maiden was herself again ; 
but it was not with her as it had been in 
the time before Arnaud came. She had 
begun to love him before, though she was 
only half conscious of it. Now she knew 
that even in her faintness her heart beat 
more quickly as she felt his arm about her 
and let her head rest on his shoulder. 
She could no longer conceal her passion 
from herself, nor did she care to do so. 
She gloried in it, but she would not let 
him know it. Arnaud might have seen 
8 113 



Arnaud' s that she loved him, unless he had been 
Tempta- so utterly absorbed in his passion for 
tion, beauty. He knew the loveliness of Sa- 
rande's form, the rich beauty of her face, 
and he was fascinated by her charm ; but 
he did not love her, he loved only her 
beauty. Nevertheless, he was in great 
danger, for to an artist the spell that is 
put upon the senses by such beauty as 
hers is almost as potent as love itself, and 
may lead to the veriest madness of pas- 
sion. Arnaud should have seen his dan- 
ger, but he did not or would not. There 
was a fascination in painting this wild girl 
of the mountains such as he had never 
known before. 

Picture after picture he painted. He 
could not resist the temptation to seek 
ever new lines of grace in the supple 
rounded form, new brilliance of color in 
the flashing eyes and rosy cheeks, new 
meaning in the mobile face yielding to 
each emotion as the wheat sways in the 
breeze, darkens in the flying cloud-shadow, 
or gleams brightly in the yellow sunlight. 
All nature was changed and made more 
beautiful to him by the beauty of this 
child of nature. 

1 14 


Weeks and months passed on, ^ind ArnatKT s 
Arnaud still lingered. Sarande seemed Tempta- 
never to tire while Arnaud painted h.tr ytion. 
but her heart was tired. He spoke no 
word of love, and passionate admiration 
was not enough for her ardent nature. 

One day she had sat for him a long 
time. Never had she been so beautiful 
as that afternoon, when the sunset bril- 
liance irradiated her face and form as it 
did the mountains above her. 

Oh, Arnaud,” she said at last, I am 
tired, I am tired. Why do you not see? 

Oh ! will you never see that I am sick at 
heart ? You are hard and cruel ; you 
care only for art and you love my beauty. 

I am not all beauty. I am a woman, I 
have a heart. Even poor Cagot girls 
have hearts. Oh ! can we not be happy 
together ? ” she cried, with a passionate 
sob. She rose and came toward him, 
trembling with the passion that had over- 
come her. 

Like a lightning flash came the truth 
to Arnaud. He had trifled with this 
girl. His art had tempted him and he 
had yielded ; nor was it only his art, for 
he knew he was not insensible to those 

”5 


Arnaud* s charms he had so often painted. There 
Tempt a- was a fierce struggle in his mind. The 
Hon, dazzling beauty was before him, offered 
to him, but between him and the maiden 
rose two pictures : the old grandmother 
sitting by the fire with her Bible on her 
knees, and Angela with her pure blue 
eyes and golden crown of hair standing 
like a madonna in the field of the 
poppies. 

“ Oh, Sarande, forgive me ! I have been 
wicked, heartless, selfish. I have hurt 
you, but I did not mean to do you harm. 
I will not hurt you more. I must leave 
you. It is not well for either of us that I 
should stay another minute.” 

Leave me ! you cannot, you dare 
not ! You will kill me. Why did you 
save my life ? Why did you love my 
beauty ? You shall not go. I will follow 
you.” 

“ It cannot be. Would that I had 
gone before ! I am hardly strong enough 
to go now, but I will go. I must go. 
Forgive me, forgive me ! My own heart 
is breaking, for I have sinned, because I 
have hurt an innocent living soul that 
trusted me.” 

1 16 


You shall not go, I will keep you here ! ” Arnaud's 
She knelt before him and begged that he Tempta- 
would not take away the light of her //<?«. 
life and leave her to die. The passion 
of this wild girl rushed forth in pleading 
words, in streaming tears. Like a whirl- 
wind of the tropics her love swept over 
her, and it nearly swept away the artist 
too, but he did not yield. He left her 
there faint and exhausted, and rushed to 
the fireside where Benate and his wife 
were sitting. 

“ Oh, father ! Oh, mother ! I have 
done you wrong, for Sarande loves me. 

I knew it not till now. She is stainless, 
but I must go away. I have been selfish, 
wicked. I did not see. I was blinded 
by her beauty. Oh, take care of her. 

She will not hate me when I am gone. 

She will be glad that her beauty was dear 
to me. Forgive me. Let me go now. 

I thank you for all you have done for 
me. Forget me as soon as you can, and 
only remember that I loved you all. Take 
care of Sarande.'* 


THE STORM AND 
THE CAVE 



IRNAUD rushed away 
from the Cagot cabin as 
quickly as he could. 
There was a long path 
before him. He was 
among the highest peaks 
of the Pyrenees, but that 
mattered not. He would go. His life 
or death was not the question. The 
question was how to save the beautiful 
Cagot maiden from harm. Down through 
the valley he ran. It was a stormy even- 
ing. Great clouds had come over the 
mountains. He could hardly find his 
way, nor indeed could he see anything. 
The beauty with which he had been in 
such close contact made his head reel ; 
but he was firm. He had overcome the 
temptation. The Cagot girl was un- 
harmed. What should he do now in that 

ii8 


dark mountain-pass with the lightning The 
about him and the thunder echoing ixom Storm 
peak to peak? Nothing, except to and the 
far away. Let the lightning flash. X^^tCave, 
the thunder roar. It would be better to 
die there innocent than to have done 
what never could be undone. 

Blind from the black storm without, 
blinder yet from the storm within, he 
wandered down the path. Nothing but 
instinct could have shown him the way. 

He had the instinct, for he was born 
among these Pyrenees. After long hours 
of weary walking he was again in the val- 
ley, and a lightning flash revealed the 
Templars’ church. 

“ Am I to go there again ? ” he said. 

“ I cannot do it. My life is changed. 

I can no longer paint there in the old 
simple stupid way, as the monk painted. 

I must go somewhere else. Where shall 
I go, what shall I do ? ” He wandered 
on aimlessly, really retracing his footsteps, 
but now no longer able to see where he 
was going, for the storm was worse than 
before. 

Now it was hardly possible to walk. 

Even his instinct could not guide him, 

119 


The for there was only blackness and lurid 

Storm lightning and deafening thunder. At 

and the times in the lightning flash he saw the 
Cave. peaks above him. They seemed purple 
and red and yellow, mysterious, as if 
in another world. Surely he had never 
seen them before. They might have 
been a part of the walls of the heavenly 
city when the lightning flash revealed 
them. The thunder rolling from peak to 
peak might have been Gabriel’s trumpet, 
calling to the day of judgment. 

Was this the judgment upon him for 
what came so near to being a sin with the 
Cagot girl ? Surely it could not be that. 
He had resisted, he had fled ; but his 
head reeled in the storm of passionate 
temptation and the tremendous storm 
above him. He sank down exhausted, 
and thought that his last hour had come. 

And now the danger came from be- 
neath as well as above. The storm-lashed 
torrent was coming closer and closer to 
the road. At last it touched Arnaud, 
where he lay in a sort of stupor. He 
would have died had it not been for the 
touch of this icy water. The shock was 
so overpowering that he started to his 
120 


feet again. He put his hand to his head, The 
still half stunned, still utterly bewildered. Storm 
Ah, this must be the place where the and the 
hermit’s cave was. Angela was here with Cave. 
me. Where is Angela ? Ah, I know. 

Surely that is the fire by the convent. 

No, it is the lightning. Will that thun- 
der crash throw down the solid cliffs ? I 
care not. If the cliffs do not crush me 
the rushing torrents will sweep me away. 

Where am I ? It must be that I went 
up this bank to the hermit’s cave, and 
Angela stood here, just here, in the road. 

This must be the road. I cannot see it. 

I can hardly feel it, for the water covers 
it even now. Ah ! that purple flash. I 
see, I see ; yes, it was here. Angela ! 

Angela ! art thou there below } Come 
hither, come hither. The waters still 
rise. It is dark, and the rocks them- 
selves are trembling beneath the thunder’s 
crash. Thou wilt be swept away by the 
torrent. Ah ! no, it was the fire that 
threatened thee. There it is again. Ah, 

God, let it not touch the place where she 
is ! Will it never stop ? There will be 
no more light. The earth is a sea of 
roaring waters. Ah ! there is a light that 

I2I 


The seems steady. My brain reels, but I 

Storm think it is the light. Where is it ^ Per- 

an(^ the haps in the sky. No, it is not a star. 

Cave, Ah, it may be the hermit’s light in his 

cave. God grant me strength and sight to 
climb to it.” 

Dazed, almost delirious from emotion 
and exhaustion, drenched by the rain and 
the torrent, chilled by the wind, which 
howled through the gorge, and blinded 
by the lurid lightning, which blazed in- 
cessantly, nevertheless there was enough 
strength left in Arnaud to enable him 
slowly to climb the mountain side. 

The light seemed to come nearer. Only 
dimly could he see it, but it seemed the 
beacon of safety. It gave him courage. 
Light in the blackness only made more 
black after the lightning’s flash — that was 
a hope, a possibility of life. He crawled 
toward it with all that was left of strength 
within him. He reached it at last, and 
the hermit saw him and wondered how a 
human being could have lived through 
such a storm in the gorge of Gavarnie. 

The anchorite came toward him with 
the light. Arnaud was again nearly un- 
conscious, but he had strength enough 
122 


left to walk a few steps, with the hermit’s The 
help. They came to the opening of Storm 
cave, a cleft in the rocks scarcely large and the 
enough to enter unless on hands and 
knees ; but the hermit dragged the help- 
less body of Arnaud through this narrow 
door, and they were sheltered from the 
storm. He took a torch from the wall. 

There were many of them, for they were 
needed always in the blackness of the 
cave. 

The bright blaze of the torch seemed 
to re-awaken Arnaud’s nearly spent pow- 
ers, and there was no more rain, no more 
torrents, no icy water freezing him. There 
was no more temptation. No Cagot 
girl could be here in this mysterious 
cave. Surely the hermit who had met 
Angela and himself that fateful morning 
was by his side, unless he was still delir- 
ious and saw nothing truly. At last he 
was able to stand, and the hermit said, 

“ Come with me, I will help you where 
the path is dangerous.” 

Arnaud could walk now, but his step 
was not firm nor was his head steady. 

The path was cut out of the solid rock, 
and it was not more than two feet in 

123 


The width. Below were vast abysses of dark- 
Storm ness from whose depths came the sound 

and the of rushing waters. A misstep would be 

Cave, fatal. A dizziness came over the painter, 
and he would surely have fallen had not 
the hermit grasped him firmly by the 
arm. Even then he was not able to go 
farther. He was overcome by weakness 
and vertigo. 

“ Lie down, I will take you to the 
cave.” 

Arnaud lay helplessly on the narrow 
path. The old man held the torch in 
his left hand. He passed his right arm 
around Arnaud’s shoulder and dragged 
him along the narrow slippery way until 
the dangerous points were passed. 

They were now in a place of some pre- 
historic race. Here were great columns, 
and from the vaulted ceiling other col- 
umns seemed coming to join those below. 
There were passages in all directions lead- 
ing to still deeper depths. Only their 
openings could be discerned by the light 
of the torch. It seemed such a place as 
Milton described when he told of the 
council of Lucifer and his angels, after 
their fall from heaven. 

124 


Arnaud still lay helpless, but he was in The 
a safe place. The hermit went toward 
the centre of the great cave and kindled ^.and the 
fire. There were rude seats of stone Cave, 
about it made by the natural inequalities 
of the rock, and there were torches placed 
in sockets here and there. All these the 
anchorite lighted. Now the central part 
of this vast columned hall was illuminated, 
but that only made the blackness of the 
outreaching passages and the spaces be- 
hind the columns darker, more weird and 
mysterious than before. The water kept 
rushing along at an unknown depth, and 
the sound of it was like that of distant 
thunder. 

Arnaud came to himself after a long 
time — many hours — during whose slow 
passage the hermit anxiously watched him. 

At last his eyes opened upon this tremen- 
dous, most mysterious cave. It could 
not be the world in which he had lived 
before. It was more peaceful than the 
tempest which had nearly killed him, but 
it was even more awful. The glittering 
columns, the blackness of the half dis- 
closed passages leading to other halls per- 
haps as great as this room, fit for the 

125 


The gods, in which he lay, the flickering 

Storm shadows on the vaulted roof — Where 

and the was he ? Perhaps in a cathedral. It 
Cave. seemed like the Templars’ church, but a 
thousand times greater in size. What 
was this continual sound of the surging 
of the deep waters Perhaps it was the 
organ tone. But there was the voice of 
the hermit who said, My son, God hath 
saved thy life.” It hardly seemed like a 
human voice. Arnaud did not know what 
it was. He was not yet master of him- 
self. Slowly, slowly he recovered con- 
sciousness. The old man gave him a hot 
drink made from the herbs of the moun- 
tains. He sat by the fire refreshed, 
comforted, but still bewildered by the 
wonderful, mysterious cave. 

At times his brain would reel, and he 
would think himself in some place not at 
all of earth. Then he would look at the 
hermit and wonder whether he really was 
a man. Then he would hear the rushing 
of the water below, and wonder if that 
was the river Styx, and that his time had 
come for Charon to take him in his boat. 
He was still half delirious, but he was 
slowly becoming more calm. The hermit’s 
126 


herbs were having their effect, and at last The 
the wandering of the mind ceased for 2i Storm 
moment and Arnaud seemed almost Kim- and the 
self again for a little time, though greatly Cave, 
weakened by his fearful trials. 

‘‘ Let us sleep,’' said the old man. 

“ The fire will warm us. There is no 
more rain, no howling wind, no crash of 
thunder. It is peaceful. Here is straw 
for your bed. Be calm, nothing can 
harm you here. The lightning cannot 
reach you, and God’s own mountain is 
your roof. Sleep peacefully, my son, and 
you will be strong again in the morning.” 

Arnaud slept not only until the morn- 
ing but for hours afterward. His strength 
was spent. He cared not whether his bed 
was of straw or down. The mysterious 
passages leading from the vast columned 
cave were forgotten. Sleep — sleep — 
sleep — nature almost outdone in endur- 
ance needed rest. It was this rest that 
stayed the hand of death. Arnaud was 
to live yet a little longer on this earth. 

His mission was not yet fulfilled, but he 
had come close to the brink of that stream 
which can only once be crossed. 

He lingered in his lethargy. The her- 

127 


The mit feared he might never awake, but he 

Storm sat by him day and night, and he gave to 

and the him, as well as he could to a man uncon- 
Cave. scious, some of the simple remedies which 
he made from the herbs he found in the 
wood. On the second day there were 
signs of returning vitality. The heart 
beat more strongly. The respiration was 
more natural. When the old man saw 
that this change had come, he was greatly 
rejoiced, and felt sure that complete re- 
covery would soon follow. But Arnaud 
was still so weak that he could not raise 
head or hand. Nevertheless, the spirit 
of life had come back to him. In a little 
while he would be himself again. 


128 


ARNAUD’S CON- 
FESSION 

T it was longer than 
the hermit thought be- 
fore Arnaud fully re- 
covered. Many days 
passed before his mind 
was quite sound again. 
Hunaud was sorely puz- 
zled by this, for the physical shock alone, 
severe as that had been, was not enough 
to account for such prolonged mental 
weakness. The strain of the temptation 
and the struggle had been as severe as 
that of the storm. Moreover, the cave 
wherein Arnaud lay was so strange a place 
that it seemed unreal, and even a man in 
full possession of his faculties might there 
easily think he was dreaming. 

At last he remembered the storm and 
his wanderings through the gorge, after 
his flight from the Cagot cabin, and he 
9 129 



Arnaud' s 
Confes- 
sion, 


recalled with shame the reason why he 
had so suddenly gone from the beautiful 
maiden of the mountain and the forest. 

‘‘ Father/* said he, “ dost thou know 
how I came hither ? ** 

‘‘ Nay, my son, I know nothing save 
that I found thee on the mountain side 
struggling toward the entrance of my 
cave, where I stood with my light. Even 
here some sound of the fearful tempest 
had come, and I thought to go forth to 
see if haply some poor wanderer had 
been overcome by the storm and might 
need help from me. Such warnings I 
have had before, and I needs must 
heed them, for they never come to me 
unless there is need. I found thee and I 
brought thee hither. I knew thee not at 
first, but afterward I remembered thee 
well, and the more readily because once 
before I was warned to leave this cave in 
search of thee, but more to seek a maiden 
who was with thee, for thou art he who 
came hither with Angela, the lovely 
maiden who was to wed the King. My 
son, tell me if thy strange coming hither 
has aught to do with her whose sad fate 
wrung my heart, even though it was laid 
130 


upon me to tell her of the ruin of ^\v2it Arnaud' s 
she had wished/’ Confes- 

‘‘ Ohj no! I came not here because 
of Angela. I have not seen her since 
that fearful day when she came near to 
dying in the angry flames that threatened 
the holy home she had built for herself 
and others whose lives the Pope’s decree 
had blasted as it had her own. Knowest 
thou aught of her, father ? Is she well ? 

Does she still dwell in that lonely, grim 
prison where she said she awaited death ? ” 

I cannot tell thee. I have not seen 
her, nor have I heard aught of her since 
that day in the church, when her father 
bore her in his arms from the altar that 
was to witness her bridal vows. Yet 
there is something in me which seems to 
say she will not stay always in that liv- 
ing tomb. Surely she is not as those 
who had been wedded. My warning 
came ere it was too late, though in her 
despair and shame it seemed to her that 
all was over for her in this life, and 
only in the other could she have any 
hope. But, my son, thou dost start up 
eagerly. Thou thinkest I am giving thee 
hope that thou mayest see her. Do not 


Arnaud's mistake me. I know nothing more than 
Confes- what I have said.” 
sion, ‘‘ But, father — ” 

“Nay, do not interrupt me. I will 
not speak of Angela since I know thou 
earnest not hither because of her. I 
feared thou didst cherish for her an un- 
ruly passion which might work her ill. 
I thought I saw it burning in thy eyes. 
But thou hast not seen her save as thou 
sayest. It is well. But thou hast seen 
some one else then, who has touched thee 
with some strong emotion that has stirred 
thee to the very depths. I know it from 
thy long delirium. Thou art too young 
and strong to be thus overwhelmed by 
the tempest alone. It is a storm within 
that has shaken thee thus. Tell me, my 
son, what is it that thou hast done which 
has so nearly unseated thy reason.” 

“Thou hast no right to ask me. I 
would thou wert a priest, for then I might 
confess to thee, but thou art not a priest 
but only a hermit. Perhaps thou art a 
magician. Hast thou made this place of 
ill omen to hide thee from the world ? 
Even now I know not, when I dare to 
look about me, whether I am alive or in 
132 


some fearful place of darkness far ixom Arnaud*s 

the light of the earth. I fear thee. I Confes- 

cannot trust thee. Thou wouldst destroy 

all happiness, and bury all earthly joys in 

this mysterious cavern. Ah ! would thou 

wert a priest ! Then would I tell thee 

all. I would confess to thee and receive 

from thee absolution, and I would ask 

thy guidance.” 

“Wouldst thou indeed confess? I 
thank God for that word. It is thy 
troubled brain which makes thee fear me, 
or fear this place. I am called Hunaud 
the Hermit, but I am a priest, yes, more 
than that. I was so near to the Pope 
himself that he gave me all honor and 
place within his power. But I sinned. 

My sin was worse than thou or any other 
mortal can have to tell me, and because 
of it, self banished, I buried myself here 
that I might repent, for I might not take 
my life, nor did I dare die until I knew 
my sin was washed out in the blood of 
Christ. Fear not to confess to me, my 
son, for God has wrought repentance in 
me, nor has he taken from me the power 
to give thee absolution and comfort, if 
thou too hast sinned. For this and all 

133 


Arnaud' s 
Confes- 
sion, 


else of power to help that he has left 
me, blessed be his holy name. Speak 
without fear, and ease thy soul of its 
burden.’* 

I will obey thee, my father, for my 
heart tells me thy words are true. I must 
have comfort, peace, and above all guid- 
ance. I will tell thee all. The Arch- 
bishop told me to leave Angela’s retreat by 
the river and go far away among the moun- 
tains where I could not see her. He 
thought, as you do, that my heart was not 
right toward her. I went as he said, and 
in the mountains I met a maiden and she 
was beautiful. I wanted to paint her. 
Dost thou know that I am a painter and 
long to be an artist ? ” 

“ Nay, I did not know that, but what 
has that to do with the sin thou wouldst 
confess ? ” 

“ Ah, I feared thou couldst not under- 
stand. None but artists can know the 
power of a passion for beauty. Thou canst 
not think that a painter would be willing 
to sell his soul if only he could see and 
keep forever those visions of loveliness 
which float before him in dreams, but 
elude him always. God made him so. 

134 


Did not God himself make all ArnaucT s 

beautiful ? Only man has marred them. Confes- 
But if an artist’s visions, seen in dreams, 
seem real before his waking eye — father ! 
surely thou must feel how eagerly he 
would seek to seize the essence of such 
beauty and keep it in his art that others 
too might see it.” 

“ I see, indeed, that beauty such as thou 
dost speak of might well have greater 
power over one whose nature God has 
filled with the love of beauty, but I see 
not why there should be deadly sin in 
this — such sin as has troubled thy very 
soul, unless indeed thou hast made a 
god of this beauty and worshipped it, 
forgetting all besides. Perhaps this is thy 
sin ? ” 

“ That may be true. Perhaps indeed 
the mischief has come from this. But 
there is more to tell. There is beauty in 
the sky and the mountains, there is beauty 
in the field and flower; but the beauty 
of all beauties is the living beauty of wo- 
man. I knew it not in the church nor 
on the mountain-tops nor in the gorges, 
but when I saw it, it carried me away, 
nor could I take my eyes from it. It is 

135 


Arnaud's because it lives — it lives. It throbs and 
Confes- pulsates. It has forms and hues that 
sion, change every instant, yet all are lovely. 

Why, then, if God made it, should evil 
come from the love of it ? I cannot see, 
I cannot see, but I know there is evil 
there, and from the evil in the Cagot girl 
I fled into the storm.*' 

The Cagot girl ! Thou hast said 
naught of that accursed race,” said the 
hermit, crossing himself “Surely thou art 
in deadly sin if aught has passed between 
thee and one of those condemned alike 
by God and man. Dogs, heretics, lepers, 
may God have mercy on thy soul if thou 
hast touched that which is unclean ! ” 

“ Say no evil of her, father, nor of those 
about her. Thou knowest her not, and 
thou knowest not them. I was among 
them and they loved me, nor have any 
ever treated me more kindly.” 

“This is a delusion of the enemy,” 
said the hermit, once more crossing him- 
self “ Surely the very spirit of evil has 
possessed thee if thou hast loved to dwell 
among the accursed.” 

“It may be as thou sayest. I know 
there was evil there and I fled from it, but 


I think it was more in my heart than in Arnaud' s 
hers. If she sinned it was in ignorance, Confes- 
but I — I was blinded by my selfish love sion, 
of beauty, and I thought not of aught be- 
side. Ah ! if thou hadst seen her as I have 
seen her, thou wouldst have thought, as I 
did, that her beauty was of God and not 
of the accursed one. It seemed as if the 
glow of a sunset in the south was in her 
cheeks. The flash of her eye was like the 
summer lightning, dazzling yet softened 
by a cloudy fringe of drooping eyelash. 

In her movement was the grace of an 
izzard of her own mountains. The curves 
of her form were lovelier than those of 
the soft rosy clouds that blend together 
in a quiet sky. How could I help loving 
such beauty ? I was mad to seize it and 
keep it ever, before it could escape me. 

And in my madness I painted her again 
and again.” 

‘‘ My son, do not tell me this is all thy 
sin. Thou hast not told me yet what has 
tortured thine heart, for I see that still 
thou lovest the very remembrance of this 
beauty, and would not confess even here 
that it was wrong to love it. Yet thou 
knowest thou hast sinned at least in 

137 


Arnaud' 

Confes- 

sion. 


s thought. Go on and tell me what is the 
sin that troubles thee.'' 

Alas ! it is of her I am thinking. I 
was cruel to her, and there is something 
else. I thought wrongly of her beauty, 
perhaps because I had no thought of it 
save that it was beauty, and cared not for 
the human life within it that made the 
beauty live. Oh ! tell me, father, where 
was my sin ? I hardly know myself, but 
I do know that I must have done griev- 
ous wrong to the maiden, for she loved 
me with all the passion of her wild nature. 
She would have kept me with her, and 
when I would not stay she fell fainting 
and seemed as one dead. Fool that I 
was, I thought only of her beauty. I 
would not for worlds have hurt her. In- 
deed, my heart is right in that matter, else 
surely I would not have fled when I saw 
her passion." 

‘‘Truly thou hast done harm, more 
perhaps than thou knowest, nor is it within 
thy power to help the maiden now. Thou 
hast sinned in thy selfishness, and also in 
yielding to a blind passion for a beauty 
which is not the highest, not the most 
inspiring, yet is of a kind that cannot be 

138 


trifled with even to inspire a painter’s 
brush, because of the living heart thditConfes- 
throbs beneath it. Tell me, did the beauty 
of this Cagot girl ever lift up thy thought 
and touch thy soul, or was the effect only 
upon thy ravished sense of sight ? ” 

“In truth, now that thou askest this 
question I cannot remember that I ever 
thought when I was painting her of aught 
but the beauty itself, the rich warm color, 
the exquisite form of head and neck and 
breast and limbs with their wondrous 
interlacing curves, and soft lights and 
shadows delicately interwoven. Surely 
it must have been of these wonders only 
that I thought while I painted. There 
was no suggestion of anything beyond 
the delight of the eye. It was as if the 
maiden was not living, but her beauty 
lived apart from her.” 

“ My son, thou sayest thou art a 
painter. Hast thou never seen beauty 
which had in it uplifting power over the 
mind besides its spell of fascination for the 
eye : 

“ You do not mean the beauty of the 
sky and the mountain, the rivers and the 
valleys, for I told you I knew of those 

139 


Arnaud" s long since. You mean the beauty of 
Confes- woman.'’ 

sion. Arnaud paused a moment, and then 

there came a great light into his eyes, 
and it seemed as if he saw a vision. 

“Yes, father," he said at length, in a 
voice that trembled with feeling. “ I 
have seen such beauty in woman as to 
be an inspiration as well as delight, but 
I can see it no more. It is with Angela 
behind the dark walls of her prison 
home." 

“ Does not the thought of her beauty 
teach thee the sin that was in thy thought 
of the other ? Surely selfishness and heart- 
breaking do not come from a love of the 
highest, either in beauty or aught else. 
It is written, ‘ If thine eye offend thee, 
pluck it out and cast it from thee.' Of a 
truth thine eye is a cause of offence to 
thee if thou dost make a god of the de- 
light it gives thee, and art content to 
worship it and think of naught beyond. 
Thou seest how near thou hast been to 
deadly sin, and what suffering thou hast 
caused to another by giving free rein to 
this passion of the eye. Dost thou truly 
repent of thy sin ? " 

140 


I repent, holy father, and I ask abso- Arnaud's 
lution. I see the sin as I knew it not Confes- 
before ; but alas ! I am an artist. Beauty 
is my life. I cannot truthfully say that it 
is within my power not to love it.” 

“ I did not say that thou couldst change 
thy nature, but I do say that thou canst 
use thy gifts for high purposes and not 
for mere wanton selfishness.” 

“ But may I not love Angela’s beauty ? 

The Archbishop and thou thyself have 
thought I was wrong in my thought of 
her, and have wished that I should not 
see her again ; but truly it is not with her 
as with the other. I did not know it 
then, but now I know that her beauty 
inspires as well as delights, and only good 
can come from it. Never could I hope 
to express its pure loveliness ; but if I 
cannot, I do not wish to paint anything 
else, and all my struggles for the highest 
in my art are in vain.” 

As to this, my son, God will guide 
thee, but beware of thyself, for thy nature 
is unruly and hard to govern. Be watch- 
ful, and trust not thyself overmuch. He 
who gave thee thy gifts will help thee in 
the use of them, if thou wilt submit to 

141 


Arnaud's his guidance. For the sin which thou 
Confes- hast sinned I give thee absolution, be- 
sion, cause of thy repentance. Rest in peace.’ ' 

Arnaud had need for rest for mind and 
body. The long talk and the feverish 
agitation had greatly wearied him. The 
thought of Angela, and the talk about 
her, had excited him and filled him again 
with a sense of irrevocable loss, and it 
seemed to him neither just nor right that 
what he longed for most and what alone 
could lift up and inspire his life and his art, 
should be buried out of his sight forever. 
But now he could talk no more, and sank 
back exhausted on his rude couch. 

The hermit brought some sticks and 
laid them upon the embers. The flames 
leapt up and lighted brilliantly the columns 
standing about them that seemingly sup- 
ported the vast roof. Weird shadows 
played over the arches and the fantastic 
shapes of the rocks. Far off into the 
black distance stretched mysterious aisles 
leading to other halls, perhaps vaster and 
darker than this one. The deep thunder 
of the rushing water in the depths below 
reverberated among the columns and the 
arches until they trembled with the sound 
142 


of it. Surely creatures of terror and Q,w\\Arnaud's 
must dwell in this place of darkness and Confes- 
mystery. A creeping sense of dread came 
over Arnaud. He would have fled if he 
could, but he was too weak. At last the 
quiet of the hermit reassured him, for the 
old man was busy in making ready their 
simple meal, and he was as calm in this 
unearthly place as he might be in a sunny 
meadow by the river side. Indeed, it was 
here that he had found peace, and the holy 
man meant not that Arnaud should leave 
this place until his soul should be at rest 
and his strength restored. 


143 


THE VOICES OF THE 
CLOISTER 

IE retreat which An- 
gela had built by the 
river was not a convent. 
It was a place where 
those women who inno- 
cently or wilfully had 
broken the laws of the 
church buried themselves alive and thus 
awaited death. It was to avoid public 
shame and disgrace that they took upon 
themselves the vow never to leave those 
grim walls until death called them thence. 
In no sense did such a vow mean consecra- 
tion to the service of God. It meant 
rather self-chosen fleeing from reproach, 
protection from the evil eyes and tongues 
of an unfriendly world. True, it involved 
passive submission to the Church's decree, 
but that was far from a belief in the jus- 
tice of it. The hearts beneath those gray 
144 




robes were oftener full of despair and even The 
rebellion than of peace and willingness to Voices 
devote themselves wholly to the service of the 
of the Church whose decree had blasted 
their lives. Nevertheless, the laws of the 
severest orders of nuns were not more 
severe than those imposed upon them- 
selves by these devotees. 

Continually they were engaged in the 
services of the Church, in prayer or pen- 
ance, not because they loved them, but 
because they dared not leave their minds 
unoccupied lest they should go mad. But 
though the outer walls of this tomb were 
grim and dark, and the outward observ- 
ances of the entombed ones as severe as 
they could make them, there was never- 
theless beauty behind the walls and the 
love of it in these stricken hearts. 

The beauty was in the cloisters and the 
chapel, which the enclosing walls sur- 
rounded and quite concealed from the 
view of those without. Angela was a 
child of the Pyrenees. Beauty had al- 
ways been about her, and it seemed to 
her not well that even a tomb should be 
unadorned. 

Perhaps instinct rather than design 
10 145 


The 
Voices 
of the 
Cloister, 


caused her to make the cloister beautiful ; 
perhaps beauty would grow up about a 
creature so lovely in form and spirit as 
Angela, whether she willed it or not. 

The keynote of the cloisters' beauty 
was the up-springing of the flower from 
its stem. To Angela this was a type of 
her life and other lives within those 
walls, as they might have been, not as 
they were, for alas ! no flower had sprung 
from them. They had been blasted by 
an untimely storm. No longer was the 
beauteous blossom possible. All was cold 
and frozen. Yet the very stones were 
eloquent. There were two rows of slen- 
der columns, one within the other, that 
went in graceful procession about the 
central court, which was full of heaven's 
bright sunlight. Their interlacing arches 
joined hands so that those in full light 
seemed ever leading on those in shadow, 
as if hoping that those in partial darkness 
might also come at last to the light, as 
together they went about the sunny court. 
Slender indeed were the columns, almost 
too slender to bear up their rich burden 
of beauty, slight as it was, for it was made 
of flowers and leaves. 

146 


The oak and the laurel, the acanthus The 
and the rose, twined together their luxu- Voices 
riant foliage, and gave each column its^ the 
own crown of grace and charm. In the Cloister, 
lines of the columns and the arches that 
bound them together was the thought of 
upward seeking, far upward even toward 
the skies. Yet even such an ethereal 
spirit seemed to linger, lost for a moment 
in the foliage of the spandrels, ere it burst 
through to reach the higher beauty of the 
heavens. It was a mystic procession of 
graceful forms always hand in hand, al- 
ways flower-crowned, those in the sunlight 
always seeking those in the shade, those 
in the shade tenderly keeping their half- 
seen blossoms, almost fearing lest the full 
light might mar their fragile forms, or 
make them shrink away too modestly 
from its ardent caress. 

Beside these flower-crowned stems, be- 
neath these arches so lovingly interlaced, 
walked those who living were yet dead to 
earthly life, and there Angela led them in 
the morning as the sun rose, in the full 
splendor of noon, in the quiet of paling 
twilight, in the gloom of midnight, to 
the chapel that was beyond the cloister, 

147 


The 
Voices 
of the 
Cloister. 


where they sang, and prayed, and wept, 
and did penance self-inflicted. Here too 
were the up-springing arches of the cloister, 
but these were higher, and among them 
were windows through whose painted 
panes came the sunlight, making rainbows 
in the aisles. From the cell through the 
cloister to the chapel at the time of ma- 
tins, thence again through the cloister to 
the cell for private prayer, then to the 
refectory for the morning meal, frugal, 
and eaten in silence, once more to the 
cell for reading and perhaps penance, then 
quiet walking in the cloister until the noon- 
day services — so passed each morning, 
varied only by the storm or sunshine 
above the cloistered court. And the 
afternoons were like the mornings, and 
the nights were like the days in the cease- 
less round of cell and cloister and chapel, 
prayer and praise and penance. 

There was no sound of bell or organ in 
the chapel. There was to be nothing that 
could give to the world without any sign 
that there was life behind those grim walls. 
To each was appointed in due turn the 
duty of receiving at the low-arched door 
what was needed for food and raiment, 
148 


and this made the only variety of their The 
lives, save the changes of light and shadow Voices 
among the columns and the arches, the of the 
cells and the chapel. When this turn Cloister, 
came to Angela she sometimes lingered 
in the cloister as she went toward the door, 
and again as she came from it. If the day 
weS*e fine and the cloister radiant with sun- 
light, she would lean against a column and 
look upward toward the blue of heaven. 

Perhaps the passion for beauty would 
come over her, and she would throw back 
her cowl and loosen her auburn tresses, in 
which was the shining of imprisoned gold, 
and she would look upward at the climb- 
ing flowers and leaves of stone and beyond 
them toward the heaven to which the 
arches pointed. Then would the blue 
of her eyes seem like that of the sky it- 
self Her slender form with its curves of 
loveliness would blend with the flower- 
stem columns and the graceful arches. 

Then was the outward picture perfect in 
its beauty, save for the imprisoning walls 
that closed about it and would not let it 
blossom and bear fruit, as might even the 
lifeless stones that were all about her. 

At such times the rebellion in Angela’s 

149 


The 
V oices 
of the 
Cloister, 


mind overcame her. Her youth and her 
beauty rose up in protest against the un- 
broken monotony of her prison. The 
columns and the arches, the dainty leaves 
and flowers, stone though they were, be- 
came living voices of beauty, and eagerly 
urged on her half-unwilling thought of free- 
dom. When she knew she would burst her 
bonds if she dared she was sure the clois- 
ter’s flowers were her friends, and wished 
to whisper to her always some new secret 
of that full life beyond the prison wall, of 
which she feared it was a sin even to think. 

And then she would impose upon her- 
self new penances more severe than before. 
Hour after hour she would kneel alone on 
the cold stones of the chapel in the night 
time, when the glory of the windows was 
shrouded with a pall of darkness and there 
was naught to suggest life and beauty, 
nothing, nothing about her save the cold 
and blackness of the tomb. But even 
there she would listen for the voices of 
the columns and the flowers, and they 
would speak to her heart in the very midst 
of her prayers, and their touch of love 
and life would make her pulse throb in 
spite of aching limbs and body half faint- 
150 


ing with weariness because of cold and The 
fasting. As the slow hours went by, their Voices 
voices overcame her more and more, until of the 
she could no longer pray because Cloister. 
would listen to them, and at last at mid- 
night came the long procession, and the 
candles gave a fitful light about the altar 
before which she knelt. The solemn 
chant, the measured words of prayer echoed 
along the aisles and far up to the vaulted 
roof, dying away at last in stillness as the 
devotees arose, and she joined them as 
they went slowly and silently back to their 
cells. 

It was always the same at this hour of 
midnight, and Angela hoped this outward 
peace of devotion would still the voices 
of the flowers ; but no, they whispered 
even louder than before. The monotony 
of this death in life went on day after day, 
night after night, until Angela thought she 
would be mad unless she freely listened to 
her friends of the cloistered arches, and let 
herself be refreshed by their words of love 
and life and beauty. She yielded to them 
more and more, until she was their willing 
slave, ready to do their bidding. When 
the great fire came the monotony of this 

151 


The life in a tomb was rudely broken. For 

Voices those whose hearts were really sad there 

of the was now a wild hope that the fire would 

Cloister, consume them and their time of weary 

waiting would be over. Angela was not 
one of these. Really she was longing for 
life, yet she remained true to her vow, 
although the Archbishop absolved them 
all, and bade them come forth and live. 
She was not one to yield to fear and, like 
a coward, flee from the face of death, which 
she and those with her had vowed they 
would await. But when Angela opened 
the low door and spoke to the Archbishop, 
who was kneeling there while the flames 
roared and leapt behind him, and begging 
them to come forth lest they perish, she 
saw another figure beside that of the 
praying priest. She saw Arnaud de 
Bearn, and she knew why he was there. 
His eyes met hers in that awful moment, 
nor could she help answering in sym- 
pathy their look of hopeless, passionate 
intensity. Her pride and her will con- 
quered. The door was shut, and the im- 
prisoned ones calmly awaited their doom. 
The flames were averted, and death did 
not come to them then. Something quite 
152 


different had come to Angela. Death The 
would not come, but life was there with Voices 
Arnaud just beyond the walls. of the 

Afterward Angela trembled whenever 
her turn came to go to the door and open 
it to receive what was needed for those 
within. When the door opened she would 
see the shining river winding among the 
low hills. Trees bent over it, and the 
leaves of the willow kissed its shining 
wavelets. White lilies floated in still 
pools, and blue violets peeped out from 
mossy banks. But not upon these did 
Angela's trembling glance linger. She 
thought that Arnaud might be there, hid- 
den in some copse, watching for the open- 
ing of the door and hoping that she would 
come at the call of love, though she would 
not at the threat of fear. And her heart 
told her she would go if he asked her. 

One word from him would shatter forever 
the hideous monotony of this death in 
life, and she would be alive again in love 
and youth, in beauty and in joy. But he 
did not come. She knew not that the 
Archbishop had seen the passion in his 
face when his eyes rested upon her that 
one moment when the door opened and 

153 


The 
Voices 
of the 
Cloister, 


she stood there looking at him, and that 
the stern priest had banished her lover 
when he saw his love in his eyes. She 
knew not of the Cagots, nor of the storm ; 
but she wondered why the man who loved 
her and whom she loved, did not rescue 
her, and bear her away by force, if need 
be, from this daily torture of monotonous 
peace, that was slowly killing all that was 
good in her. 

Still he did not come. Day after day, 
week after week, month after month, and 
he came not. Nevertheless the monot- 
ony was broken. The thought that he 
might come gave a tremor of hope every 
time she went to the low door, and the 
flowers among the arches were really alive 
now, and she no longer tried to resist their 
whispered words. Nay, she sought them, 
and by the hour she talked with them in 
her heart. 


154 


A LETTER FROM COUNT 
RAIMOND 

HERE came a day when 
she opened the door ac- 
cording to her custom, 
and found another stand- 
ing there with those who 
brought the food and 
raiment. At first she 
thought it might be Arnaud, and her 
heart gave a wild leap and then stood 
still, until she became quite white and 
trembled. But in another moment her 
eyes told her that it was not he, but an 
old and trusted retainer of her father. 
Count Raimond. This man waited until 
the rest had gone and then approached 
the door, where Angela still stood watch- 
ing him. With reverence he bowed and 
said : — 

“My lady, I am the bearer of a letter 
from your father, and he bade me await 
your answer. Here is the letter.” 



ISS 


A Letter Kneeling, he placed it in her hand. 
from Angela, not speaking a word, for this the 

Count rule of the retreat forbade, took it and 

Raimond, read these words : — 

“My Daughter, — I am sick unto death. 
There is no one to care for me. I am desolate, 
alone in the last hours of my life. I long for 
a loving word, a healing touch of sympathy and 
comfort. I fear my days are numbered, but 
perhaps your love would bring me back to life. 
If I must die, I cannot die in peace unless I 
hear from your own lips that you have forgiven 
me for betrothing you to the King and bringing 
the blight of sadness upon your young life. I 
was to blame, and I can no longer bear that 
thought. Come to me, my daughter, and tell 
me that you love me still. Then can I die in 
peace. The Archbishop tells me that your vow 
no longer binds you. Listen to the voice of 
your father, and come ere it be too late.’" 

Angela pressed the letter to her heart. 
She bowed her head, and the tears flowed 
down her cheeks as she thought of her 
dying father waiting for her, longing for 
her love. 

‘‘Wait here,'* she said at last. “I 
will come again soon with my answer.’’ 

She closed the door. Silently she went 

156 


back through the cloister. She did not^ Letter 
wish to hear the flower voices then, hutfrom 
they would speak, and they told her to Count 
go. She could not help hearing, but sho, Raimond, 
would not yield to them. She passed 
beyond and went into the chapel. It was 
a day of glorious sunshine. The rain- 
bows of promise that arched the aisles 
from one painted window to another lived 
in their palpitating beauty of light trans- 
formed to dazzling color. The altar it- 
self was bright and gleaming with red and 
purple and green and yellow, like some 
great sun-touched gem. Angela knelt 
there and prayed. An answer of hope 
and love and duty came from the glory 
about her that God sent to lift her heart 
from the tomb and touch it anew with 
the thought of a life that her Creator 
meant she should live, and that her own 
heart had long been telling her she must 
live. 

Angela rose and left the chapel. She 
went to the cells where the devotees were 
sitting in silence, and asked them to come 
to the court-yard of the cloister. There 
in the sunshine they gathered about her. 

“ Sisters in sorrow,*' she said, “ I must 

157 


A Letter leave you. My dying father calls me. 
from Not to save my own life would I go 

Count hence, but to save his or to comfort him 

Raimond. I must go. God has told me it is my 
duty, and the Archbishop loosed the bond 
of the vow, as ye know. Ye too are free. 
If there be any voice that calls you hence 
and ye are sure it comes from God, go 
forth in peace ; but if ye will stay here 
with your sorrow and await a better life 
beyond, may God’s blessing rest upon 
you.” 

They pressed about her and kissed her 
hand, weeping as her beautiful form passed 
slowly from them, under the arches toward 
the door. But the flowers and the leaves 
did not weep. They whispered more 
loudly than ever and were glad, and An- 
gela heard them. Her heart gave loving 
answer to their gentle voices. She opened 
the door. The old soldier still stood 
there waiting. 

This is my answer,” said Angela, "" I 
go with you. Take me to my father.” 

They went together to the village, where 
retainers with horses awaited them. Then 
they followed the winding river among 
the trees that loved it, and they went 
158 


through the forest, where the leaves A Letter 
gleamed and glittered in the sunlight and from 
the breeze made low music among the Count 
boughs. Raimond, 

Above the glades was the blue of 
heaven, and here and there a tender fleecy 
cloud floated in it. The birds were sing- 
ing their love-songs and the little brooks 
made answer. At last the blue hills rose 
in the distance, and beyond towered 
grandly the snow-clad peaks of the Pyre- 
nees. And to Angela as she rode on this 
seemed a resurrection. Life was all about 
her, joyous, up-springing, vivid. The 
tomb was broken, and it was almost as 
if heaven were opening before her. As 
she neared her native valley she could 
scarce restrain the beating of her heart. 

At last she saw it. The foaming river 
leapt to greet her; the green meadows 
warm in the sun gave her welcome ; the 
low hills seemed to embrace her ; the 
grand mountains rose about to protect 
her as of yore. There was her father s 
castle rising above the little village that 
she loved. Angela could no longer re- 
strain herself ; she urged her horse for- 
ward and flew on toward the gates of her 

159 


A Letter childhood’s home. Across the draw- 
from bridge she sped, and without a word to 

Count any she threw herself from her horse and 
Raimond, rushed to her father’s room. The Count 
still lived. As Angela in all her loveli- 
ness stood before him, he gave a cry of 
joy. In a moment she was in his arms. 
It seemed to him as if an angel of love 
and life had come, bearing a message of 
hope and peace. 


HUNAUD’S LAST 
WORDS 



r was morning in the 
cave. Arnaud knew this 
because as he awoke he 
saw the hermit with his 
light coming toward him 
along the narrow path- 
way that led to the en- 
trance. The old man had risen long 
before Arnaud awoke, and he had been 
out to gather herbs and get some vege- 
tables from his little garden on the moun- 
tain side, and to bring some sticks for the 
fire. As he worked at these simple tasks he 
prayed. Such was his habit. His life was 
passed in prayer, uttered or silent. This 
morning his prayer was more than usually 
fervent, for his mind was greatly troubled. 
Arnaud*s confession had deeply moved 
him, and he hardly knew if he had done 
right to grant him absolution. The very 

II i6i 



Hunaud" 
Last 
W ords. 


s thought of the Cagots was an abomination 
to him, and yet this young man had dwelt 
with them in the familiar intercourse of 
home ; nay, more, the Cagot girl had loved 
him, and Arnaud had barely escaped 
deadly sin. The hermit could not have 
pardoned this, nor could he have under- 
stood it except for something in his own 
life, that secret cause for living in the 
cave of which he had spoken to Arnaud. 
The beauty of woman was not unknown 
to the venerable priest. He knew more 
of the artist’s fiery furnace of temptation 
than Arnaud dreamed of as he made his 
confession. Indeed, the old anchorite was 
troubled because he feared his sympathy 
had led him astray and made him too 
lenient with the young man. Neverthe- 
less, he could not be sorry he had granted 
the peace of absolution to one who had 
passed through so sore a trial, and who 
was so stricken in soul and mind and 
body. But he meant that the peace he 
had given should be followed by a warn- 
ing. Arnaud must know that he could 
not thus sin again, unless he wished the 
gates of heaven to be closed against him. 

As the hermit drew near, Arnaud rose 
162 


and went toward him, to give help with Hunaud's 
his burden. The young man felt quiet 
and refreshed. The cave, dark and Words, 
as it was, no longer terrified him. The 
shadowy shapes of demons that he had 
seemed to see in the darkness about the 
columns and under the vast roof had dis- 
appeared. Even the thunder of the 
water as it rushed and tumbled below 
seemed not so dreadful as before. It was 
because his soul was at peace. He had 
confessed and been forgiven. The hermit 
greeted him kindly, and was glad that his 
strength had come back. Soon the great 
fire was again blazing, and once more they 
sat beside it and ate their simple meal. 

“ Holy father,’' said Arnaud at last, 

“ you see that I am refreshed and com- 
forted. I thank you for the peace you 
have given me, but I am still weak. I 
am afraid of myself. I cannot stay here 
and shun the world, for I have work to 
do. I know it, God tells me so. I have 
a life to live. I love, and oh, father ! 
something makes me hope I may be 
loved, but I am not worthy yet. I am 
still weak from the struggle. Tell me 
what to do. I cannot help the Cagot girl ; 

163 


Hunaud's I cannot see Angela. What can I do ? 
Last My path is not plain before me. Tell me, 

JV ords, for I know thou art wise, and I am ready 

to do as thou sayest.*' 

My son, there is but one thing for 
thee to do. Thou must go back to thine 
home and dwell there with thy father and 
thy mother, and in all humility thou must 
go again to the church of the Templars, 
and do such work as there is appointed 
for thee to do. Do there thy best, and 
give to others the beauty the Lord is 
pleased to reveal to thee, caring not, nor 
thinking whether it be some great thing, 
but caring only that it shall be the best 
thou hast to give. If thou dost work in 
this spirit the Lord will bless thee. It is 
written that whatsoever thine hand findeth 
to do thou shalt do it with thy might, 
as unto the Lord and not unto men. 
Work, therefore, and trust that he who 
gave thee thy talent will teach thee how 
best to use it.” 

I hear thy words, and I obey ; I know 
that thou speakest the truth. I will fling 
from me wild and selfish ambition. I 
will no longer make the delight of the 
eye my god, but I will love beauty still, 
164 


and may God help me to reveal it inHunaud's 
truth and loveliness to others ; for that 2ind Last 
only that can I do, if indeed I can do PV ords, 
anything now/' 

For a few moments they sat there quietly, 
the aged hermit and the youthful artist. 

There was the light of hope in each face. 

The old man was looking toward the re- 
ward beyond, for his life-struggle was 
nearly passed. The young man's eyes 
were kindled with a new light, for he 
looked toward a future here of love- 
inspired work, touched by the spirit 
of beauty and led upward by the spirit 
of God. 

“ Father," he said at last, I am strong 
enough to go. The fever of body has 
left me ; the tumult of my mind has 
been calmed by thee, for thou hast led me 
to him who rules all tempests and brings 
his own calm after the storm." 

‘‘ Farewell, rfiy son ; thou canst not too 
quickly set thine hand to the plough, and 
see to it that thou lookest not back." 

Arnaud rose and went toward the her- 
mit. Reverently he knelt and kissed his 
hand. Then he took the light and went 
steadily along the narrow ledge above the 

165 


Hunaud's torrent. As he came to the broader plat- 
Last form of rock that was before the cave- 

Prords, entrance he turned and looked again to- 

ward the hermit's hall. The flames of 
the fire still lighted it. The weird shad- 
ows still rose and fell among the vast 
mysterious columns and the arches far 
above. The old man was kneeling with 
eyes uplifted toward heaven. Arnaud 
knew he was praying for him. He knew 
too that the hermit’s last work on earth 
was done. He felt that soon he would 
lie down in the cave where he had strug- 
gled and conquered alone, and his soul 
would rise from among the deep shadows 
and find its reward in the everlasting 
light. 

One more step, and Arnaud was again 
in the free air beneath the blue of the 
heaven. The mystery and the darkness 
of the cave were as a dream, but not the 
truth in his heart that had come to him 
there. The spirit of the hermit was at 
his side as he turned resolutely down the 
familiar path toward the home where his 
father and his mother waited in patience 
for the wanderer’s return. It was life 
again. There was no longer darkness. 

i66 


There were no more demons within or Hunaud's 
without. Heaven’s sunlight bathed th.Q Last 
landscape. The torrent that rushed be- Words, 
side him was not the hidden roaring flood 
far beneath him in the cavern. It was the 
river that he knew. Surely it was not the 
same that had nearly overwhelmed him 
in that night of terror. Now its waters 
leapt with life. They gleamed and 
sparkled. They were glad. They beck- 
oned him on and on, ever onward toward 
the peaceful valley they were seeking. 

Below were the meadows, where were 
grazing the cattle and the sheep. Those 
who tended them were quiet and peaceful 
in the sunlight with the rich verdure all 
about them. Ah, he knew it well. The 
great mountains too — they were keeping 
watch. These snow-clad sentinels were 
guarding the valley that no foe might 
enter there. Surely it would be peaceful 
in the home. Surely the father and the 
mother would still be there by the great 
fire, and his eyes would look upon them 
once more. On and on he walked. The 
valley widened, the rushing river be- 
came more quiet. Now the Templars’ 
church rose again before him. He had 


Hunaud's seen it last when the lightning blazed 

Last above it in lurid fire on that awful night. 

JVords, Now it was peaceful in the sunshine. 

The old ramparts stood strong and grim 
as of yore, and the tower with the bells 
rose above them. He heard the chime 
of matin song. The Templars were 
kneeling within. Perhaps the Cagots 
were even now crawling beneath the wall 
and seeking their hidden chapel where 
they might worship, unseen. Ah, yes, 
the hermit had said he was to work there. 
He would go. He would seek the simple 
painter-monk, and together they would do 
what they could to bring God’s own beauty 
into the church. Perhaps that beauty 
would soften men’s hearts, so that even 
the poor Cagots might come and worship 
with them. But still he went on. He 
was not to linger by the church. The 
hermit had said he must first gladden the 
home. The valley broadened now, and 
the river was calm among the meadows. 

Soon he saw the houses clustered by 
the bridge, and among them rose the 
thatched roof that he loved. Slowly 
and reverently he went toward the door. 
Trembling, he lifted the latch and looked 

i68 


within. Ah, joy! It was still t\vtVQ,y th^Hunaud's 
picture of his boyhood. The father ?ind Last 
the mother were sitting by the great fire. IVords. 
She knitted while the old man mended 
his farming tools, and they talked together 
in low tones. They were talking of him, 
and wondering when their lost boy would 
come home again. 

‘‘ Father, mother, I am here,*’ he said. 

For a moment they were startled, but 
not for long. They had been waiting 
for him, and in their simple faith they 
knew he would come. Now he was there, 
coming toward them with bowed head. 

They rose to meet him. Their arms were 
about him. With tears of joy and broken 
words they gave him his welcome home. 


169 


ANGELA AND COUNT 
RAIMOND 



IT was true that Count 
Raimond was very near 
to death when his daugh- 
ter came. It seemed as 
if his joy at the sight of 
her had given him new 
' strength, but it was only 


the strength of great excitement. Soon 
he sank back again on his pillows, and 
became so weak that he almost lost con- 
sciousness. Angela knew then that she 
must care for him and watch him night 
and day. His only hope was in her con- 
stant, loving nursing, which would minis- 
ter to the body and also to the heart. 
Very quietly she set about her task. Not 
for a moment did she think of failure. It 
seemed that God had called her away from 
her living tomb to work and wait for life, 
not death. She knew that God would 
170 



spare to her this life which He had Angela 
upon her to save. Strong in this faith, 
she sat hour after hour by her father. Count 
The touch of her hand had healing in itRaimond, 
and could cool the fevered brow. There 
was peace in her ministrations ; and even 
when he was most restless, the sick man 
would become more quiet when she 
smoothed his pillows and arranged the 
drapery on his couch, and spoke low 
words of love and hope. Sometimes he 
slept, and then Angela was glad ; she 
would sit looking at him, and her eyes 
would be bright with courage and soft 
with tenderness. Not far from the 
Count's bed was an arched niche which 
was his oratory. Here was a little altar 
of carved wood, and there was a window 
of stained glass above it. Here he had 
been wont to kneel alone in prayer. The 
window was toward the east, like those 
behind the altar in the chapel where An- 
gela and her sisters had so often prayed 
together. After a long night of watching, 
at last the sun would come, and there would 
be a rainbow of promise above this altar, 
as there had been above that in the chapel. 

But this rainbow was not like the other. 

171 


Angela It was far brighter, infinitely more beauti- 
and ful. Angela had always thought those 

Count bright promises written in light spoke of 

Raimond, a life hereafter, but this rainbow above 
the Count’s altar kept promising life here, 
and yet strangely enough it was far brighter 
than the others. For a while she could 
not understand, but at last she knew. 
The full brightness even of a heavenly 
hope could not shine upon those who 
selfishly shut themselves away from all 
the suffering of life, and gave no hand to 
help. That light of heaven shines here 
on earth for those who live in loving help- 
fulness, and it will grow ever brighter 
until there shall come the full splendor 
of the perfect day. 

Though Angela sat here day after day 
and night after night there was no weari- 
ness in her task. The meaningless monot- 
ony of cell and cloister and chapel, prayer 
and penance and fasting, was gone. There 
was life in her work and life in her heart. 

At last the fever passed by, and slowly, 
very slowly, her father’s strength began 
to come back, though he was long so 
weak that he could hardly speak above 
a whisper. 

172 


Then came the time when they could 
talk together. Count Raimond was sad^w^/ 
as she spoke of the days in the retreat, Count 
nor did she dare to tell him all the dr tm- Raimond, 
ness of them lest he should reproach 
himself too bitterly because of his part in 
that betrothal so rudely broken, that had 
brought all his daughter's suffering upon 
her. She asked him about the King. 

My daughter, the King grieved bit- 
terly when thou wert taken from him. 

Often he called me to him that he might 
tell me of his sadness. He had given 
thee all his love, and well he knew that no 
other could ever take thy place in his 
heart. It was long ere he would think of 
marriage. But kings are not as other 
men. They must bury their own sor- 
rows and live for their people. The good 
work he had begun for Bearn might not 
go on in peace unless he could train up 
a son who would know how to carry it 
further. So at last he yielded to his coun- 
cillors' advice, and his own unwilling judg- 
ment, and wedded a wife, a princess, from 
the land across the mountains, hoping 
that thus the feud between his kingdom 
and hers might be quieted ; and indeed 

173 


Angela the mountain passes have been safer since, 
and and the two peoples are brought closer 

Count together. Perhaps they will join in one 
Raimond, kingdom by and by.” 

The old man looked steadily at his 
daughter as he said these words. Surely 
there would be tears of wounded pride, 
if not outraged love. But no, it was not 
so. Angela was perfectly calm. There 
was a light in her face, but it was a peace- 
ful and beautiful light, and she spoke not 
a word. 

Angela, I feared to tell thee this lest 
it should wound thee, but thou lookest 
not sad but rather glad.” 

‘‘ Father, I am glad, glad indeed that 
the King has done his duty and is at 
peace, and that his grief for the loss of me 
did not make him forget the good of the 
people God has put in his charge.” 

‘‘ Thou speakest the truth indeed, but 
no maiden whose heart was touched could 
speak thus. I thought thou didst love 
him, and that the loss of him was thy 
bitterest grief ; but surely that cannot 
be. Tell me, did he never touch thine 
heart ? ” 

‘‘No, father, but I revered him, and 


174 


I reverenced thy wish. I would Angela 
been a faithful queen to him, as and 

to be my duty. I even thought then that Count 
I might love him in time, but now I know Raimond. 
that never could have been.'' 

Count Raimond's spirit was lightened. 

His daughter had been spared the agony 
of a broken heart. He never had dreamed 
that Angela did not love this great King 
whom he himself loved so devotedly, and 
in whose service he would have given his 
life. 

I am indeed glad, Angela," said he, 

“ that thou didst not suffer as I feared. 

Surely thou wert sorely overcome in the 
church. I bore thee thence fainting in 
my arms." 

“ Oh, father, it was the shame, the dis- 
grace, the open scandal ; and then, too, 

I was grieved for the King. Though I 
loved him not as a woman ought to love, 
yet was he dear to me, and I was sorry to 
cause him pain and bring what then 
seemed like shipwreck to his life. But 
all that is past, and I am glad that he has 
a queen and that all is well with him and 
with his kingdom and hers." 

“ Thou dost indeed bear very bravely 

175 


Angela the news of his marriage, which I feared 
and to tell thee. Nevertheless, thou hast not 

Count told me all the reason for this unselfish 

Raimond. interest in his welfare. It seems to me 
thou carest marvellous little that another 
has taken thy place.’* 

The Count shook his head, and looked 
more narrowly at his daughter, who averted 
her face from him and was silent ; but there 
was a telltale blush on her cheek. 

‘^Ah, my daughter, I see. There is 
another of whom thou thinkest. Nay, 
seek not to conceal it from me, for I read 
thy thought in thy face. But how 
couldst thou find a lover within those 
grim walls that thou didst build? Ah, 
Angela ! Angela ! I fear thou wert but a 
sorry nun. But, nay, I remember thou 
didst never promise to be a nun at all. 
It was only that thou wouldst await death 
there, and thy young life tired of that.” 

“ Nay, father, do not jest,” said the 
maiden, at last. “ Thou knowest I meant 
to keep my vow, and thought I could 
keep it there ; but alas ! there was some 
one who entered there with me, and when 
the door was shut he was still there and 
would not go away.” 

176 


“What dost thou say? Some on^ Angela 
entered there with thee ? Surely, surely and 
that could never have been. What — ” Count 
“ Father, father, thou dost not und^v- Raimond, 
stand,’’ said Angela, blushing hotly now 
but looking at him fearlessly. “ Thou 
knowest no man ever entered there. It 
was only in my heart that he entered with 
me, and it was the thought of him that 
stayed there and would not go away, and 
oh ! the flowers and the leaves in the 
cloisters kept telling me about him. Per- 
haps they were wicked, but I could not 
help listening. And oh ! father, once 
he tried to get in at the time of the fire, 
and I hoped he would, but the Arch- 
bishop would not let him. Do not blame 
me. I know how weak and sinful I was, 
but I could not help it. If only the 
flowers would have stopped whispering 
about him ! but they would not, and it 
grew worse until I hoped every time I 
went to the door he would come in ; but 
he did not, and I was sorry and sad, even 
when I went and prayed before the altar 
and asked to be forgiven. I could not 
help it, indeed I could not, for I loved 
him. Now thou knowest all.” 


12 


177 


Angela ‘‘ Blame thee, my daughter ? thou 
and little knowest my heart. It is my suf- 

Count fering for thee and my loneliness that 

Raimond, have made me ill. I could not bear to 
think of thy young life entombed there. 
Now thou givest me hope of joy for thee 
and for me also. But who is this youth 
who had conquered that sweet heart of 
thine, and where didst thou meet him ? ” 

“ I was afraid to tell thee, for I thought 
thou wouldst forbid one of humble birth 
to wed her who was to have been a king’s 
bride. Indeed, it was for that thought 
as much as for my disgrace that I hid 
myself from the world. But I am afraid 
no longer, since thou sayest it is my hap- 
piness for which thou longest. I will 
tell thee his name. It is Arnaud de 
Bearn. Oh, father, knowest thou aught 
of him ? Tell me, tell me, where is he ? ” 
“ Arnaud de Bearn ! Ah, yes, I know 
the name well. His family dwell in the 
little village below the hill on which 
stands the Templars’ church. Long have 
they dwelt there. It is true they are 
humble folk, so far as outward station 
goes ; but they have as much reason to be 
proud of their birth as I, for there is no 
178 


nobler blood that flows in any family va Angela 
all Bearn. If what is told of them \%and 
true, they are descended from one of the Count 
early kings of this ancient realm. Raimond, 

is the young man worthy ? I know him 
not.” 

“ I know thou wouldst not believe 
if I told thee what I think. He is an 
artist, and his thoughts are great and high, 
far beyond my understanding. He is 
noble and brave ; but oh ! tell me of him. 

Where is he ? ” 

“ My daughter, I do not know, but 
surely it is he of whom the Archbishop 
told me when he came to see me and 
to tell of the fire that threatened thee. 

He spoke well of the young man ; but he 
said he was the victim of a hopeless pas- 
sion for some one within those walls of 
thine, and thinking that was a sin he sent 
him away, far off among the mountains, 
that he might be still and repent. Ah ! 
why did not he say that thou wert the 
lady of Arnaud’s love ? Soon would I 
have found means to bring you together. 

I suppose he kept it from me because he 
thought it would hurt my pride, whereas 
he might have known that was broken 

179 


Angela already, and I was suffering only because 
and of thy sorrow. Ah ! well, it is not too 

Count late. Surely he will come back, for it is 

Raimond, certain that he loves thee, and he is not 
the man to give thee up while there is 
any hope, if the true blood of his fathers 
is in him.*' 

‘‘Thy words bring me hope,” replied 
Angela, “ for now I know why he never 
again came to the gate when I opened it 
and thought I might see him each time. 
Away among the mountains, thou sayest. 
Did he say where ? ” 

“ No, my daughter ; but fear not, he 
will come. His love will find thee. I feel 
it in my heart that you will be happy, 
and in your happiness will be happiness 
for me. Now I have talked long, and 
fain would rest, for I am weary ; but I am in 
peace, for I can see joy and hope in thine 
eyes.” 

Angela smoothed her father's pillows. 
She kissed him and soothed him, and in a 
little while he sank into a deep sleep. 

During the long days and nights of 
the Count's illness Angela had not once 
left the castle. Rarely did she leave his 
room. Soon now she could leave him 
i8o 


for a while and go forth once mort Angela 
into the beautiful valley and look up to and 
the mountains that she loved. She would Count 
feel their breezes on her cheek and t\ioRaimond, 
roses would come again where there 
were too many lilies now. For a while 
she would wander on the hillsides under 
the trees, and in the meadows among the 
flowers. Her heart leapt madly at the 
very thought of it. That would be glad- 
ness enough. But no ! there would be 
another joy. Had not her father said he 
would come ? Surely his heart would lead 
him to her. 


i8i 


AGAIN IN THE TEMPLARS’ 
CHURCH 


was not very far from 
the Count’s castle on the 
rock to the peasant’s cot- 
tage by the bridge across 
the river that flowed 
quietly now through the 
valley, nor were the two 
lives far apart that went on in the halls 
of the castle and beneath the thatched roof 
of the cottage. Arnaud’s first thought 
was for his father and his mother. In 
the selfishness of his passion for beauty 
he had forgotten them. Long had he 
left them alone, nor had he found what 
he so madly sought. True, he had come 
near to it. He had seen the beauty which 
enthralls the senses, and felt its power. 
That power he knew too well, for it had 
led him into deadly peril and well-nigh 
ruined his life. He dared not even think 
182 



of it, yet he knew that he could ntYtr Again 
paint as he had before. There was some-/» the 
thing even in the sensuous beauty Templars" 
could not be forgotten, but it was not com- Church, 
plete. There was something higher, per- 
haps he could find it even yet, though he 
hardly dared to hope. But now he would 
be a part of the home life. He would do 
his duty there, and he would go to the 
church, and paint again with the old monk. 

Arnaud told his parents of his wander- 
ings. They wondered, but they could not 
understand. When he told of the fire, 
and Angela, who would not come out even 
at the call of the Archbishop, they were 
thrilled ; but when he spoke of the Ca- 
gots they shuddered and crossed them- 
selves even as the monk had done. They 
could not bear to think their son had 
dwelt among the accursed people. Ar- 
naud dared not tell them of the beauty 
of Sarande, for they would have feared 
his soul was indeed lost; but when he 
spoke of the hermit and the cave they 
were glad, for they knew he was safe there, 
and they felt he was safe now because he 
had been there. Gladly would they have 
sought the hermit to thank him, but Ar- 

183 


Again naud had told how he had left him pray- 
in the ing by the fire in the cavern, and that 
Templars' something in his heart said to him the 
Church, old man's days on earth were nearly ended. 

Then they were sorry, but they took com- 
fort in the thought that if he died they 
could go to the church and offer masses 
for the repose of his soul. 

In the days that followed Arnaud did 
not paint. In truth he almost feared his 
art, because it had led him so near to evil. 
Quietly and lovingly he did the simple 
duties that came to him in the cottage 
and on the farm. He went to the mead- 
ows with the cattle and the sheep, and 
he came in the evening to the fireside. 
He was glad in the thought of his help- 
fulness. He rejoiced in the beauty of the 
mountain-girdled meadows, but he knew 
well there was more for him to do. His 
art was his gift, and it could not be folded 
in a napkin. At last he went again to the 
Templars' church. He passed the ram- 
parts and entered the court. There was 
no one there. The Templars were in 
their cells at prayer. He went farther 
and stood before the high altar. All was 
silent, and at first he thought he was alone 
184 


in the place where he had so long stmg- Again 
gled with his art, and all to no purpose, in the 
as it seemed now. But he was not Templars* 
alone. The old monk was still painting Church, 
there, though his easel was not in its ac- 
customed place. It was nearer the altar, 
and half hidden by it. Arnaud went to- 
ward him, but so absorbed was the painter 
in his work that he did not look up until 
his pupil was close beside him. Then, 
startled, he dropped his palette and 
brushes, and looked at the young man, 
who had gone, as he thought, forever. 

In another moment he embraced and 
kissed him with the love of a father, 
and blessed him for coming again to help 
an old man in the work he could not do 
alone. 

They talked long together, and Arnaud 
told the story of his wanderings, and how 
he was sad because of failure, and only 
hoped that now he might help a little and 
add something to the sacred beauty of the 
church ; but he did not know, he could 
not tell, he could only try. Gladly in- 
deed was his offer received. 

“I knew,” said the monk, “that my 
prayer would be answered. I have prayed 

185 


Again that I should not die until I saw a great 
in the picture above the altar, but even while I 
Templars' prayed I felt that I could not paint it. 
Church, Again and again in these long years have 
I tried, but I cannot see the madonna's 
face, nor that of the holy child ; but surely 
thou canst see and paint them. Thou 
sayest thou hast failed to find the beauty 
thou didst seek, but it cannot be. I know 
that my prayer is answered.” 

Nay, father, it is not answered yet. 
I must work long before that beauty of 
which thou speakest is revealed to me, if 
indeed mine eyes are ever to be blessed 
with the sight of it. Let us wait and be 
patient. Let us do first some humble 
thing. There is beauty in every flower 
and leaf. In all harmonies- of form and 
color is there beauty. This much have I 
learned. Let us adorn the chancel as best 
we can. Perhaps the picture of which 
thou dreamest and for which thou hast 
prayed may come while we work and 
wait.” 

To this they agreed at last, and as they 
worked on together the chancel was trans- 
formed, and where the cold gray of the 
stone had been were vines and flowers, 

i86 


and above upon the vaulted roof Again 
hues like those of the snow-mountains the 
when the setting sun touched them. Templars' 
Thus in the church and in the home 
passed many quiet days. 


187 


THE END OF AR- 
NAUD’S QUEST 

T last the time came 
when Count Raimond 
was so much better that 
Angela could leave him 
for a while. At first 
she dared not go far 
from the castle, but she 
would wander through the streets of the 
little village, and perhaps go as far as the 
river, the sparkling joyous river whose 
glad rippling voice spoke always of new 
life and hope, though it sped on so swiftly 
toward the far deep sea. 

All communion with nature was rap- 
ture to one so long entombed within prison 
walls. Her heart danced and leapt with 
the bright wavelets, and it seemed as if 
they spoke to her as had the flowers and 
the leaves in the cloister, only their voices 
were truer and more touching, and it 



seemed sometimes as if they bade her The 
seek some one who waited for her, some End of 
one to whom she could bring joy 2in6. Arnaud's 
brightness as they were bringing it to her. ^est. 
And they told her she would find him, 
though they never told her where. 

One day the Count was so well that 
Angela thought she could walk as far as 
she pleased. It was a cloudless day in the 
late spring. In the valley and on the 
lower hill-slopes it was already summer, 
and the wild-flowers were springing every- 
where. There were violets peeping out in 
the shade of great trees, and there were 
white daisies in the sunlight dancing with 
the mountain breeze. Angela threw back 
the blue mantle which she had thrown 
over her head and shoulders. She loos- 
ened the bands that bound her hair, and it 
fell about her in a shower touched with 
gold. She gathered violets and daisies and 
playfully crowned herself with these like a 
child-queen of the May, and then she went 
on and on through the meadows, treading 
a path her heart had told her without her 
asking, for she came to the field of the 
poppies. 

There she stood like a startled fawn. 

189 


The 
End of 
Arnaud's 
^est. 


Not the crimson of the blossoms stopped 
her, dazzling as it was, nor the beauty of 
the corn-flowers yellow in the sun ; no, nor 
yet the tender thoughts that dwelt about 
that field. She stopped, afraid though 
glad, with beating heart, because she saw 
a figure coming toward her up the hill- 
side, and she knew that it was he. 

Arnaud was weary with his work that 
day. The sunshine would come into the 
dark church and it wooed him thence. 
Why did it always speak of Angela far 
away behind her prison walls ? It had no 
other word, but only Angela ! Angela ! 
Angela ! He could bear it no longer. 
At least he could go to the field of the 
poppies where he had seen her first, and 
there he would see her again in his 
dreams. Down the long hill he went, and 
he crossed the river, whose bright waves 
were like the sunlight, eloquent of her. 
Now upward through the meadows, and 
at last he saw the crimson gleam of the 
flowers that he loved. 

Then he bowed his head in reverence, 
for it seemed to him he was about to 
tread on holy ground ; and he went on 
with slower step until he stood among the 
190 


poppies that had always been about her 
in his thoughts since first he saw End of 
there. At last he raised his eyes, and inArnaud's 
the sunlight a vision rose before 
lovelier far than any seen before in 
dreams. It was the lady of his love, but 
he thought he saw some angel of the sun- 
shine and the flowers. 

She was looking toward him with violet 
eyes wide opened, filled with wonder but 
softly tender. Her red lips were slightly 
parted, as though she caught her breath. 

The auburn hair wherein the sunbeams 
were entwined fell about her, and the 
breeze played lovingly among its tresses. 

One white hand held her fluttering mantle 
of blue, close to the snowy throat. The 
other was stretched toward him with a 
timid gesture. The folds of her white 
robe clung close about the flowing curves 
of her form, lovely in its tender lines, but 
strong and rich with the gracious beauty 
of the perfect woman. The violets and 
the daisies crowned her, and the sunlight 
in her hair made a halo around her head. 

Thus stood she there with the poppies 
and the corn-flowers at her feet. 

Arnaud fell on his knees and crossed 

191 


The 
End of 
Arnaud's 
^est. 


his hands upon his breast. He gazed 
upon her entranced, nor could he breathe 
for a time because of the wonder of the 
vision. Surely in another moment it 
would go back to the heaven whence it 
came. But no, as he knelt there, soft 
color gently spread over her cheeks as 
the flush of day mantles the cheek of 
dawn. 

She bowed her head and hid from him 
the blue of her heavenly eyes ; but she did 
not go, she only trembled like her daisies 
in the breeze, and then he knew that she 
was a woman, and a great wave of love 
rushed over his heart as he rose and went 
toward her with clasped hands. 

“ Angela ! Angela ! Surely thou art 
Angela indeed ! I thought I had seen an 
angel, a saint. I know not, but I feared 
it was a vision, and would vanish, to leave 
me alone again. Truly thou art a vision, 
but thou art also Angela, my love, oh ! 
my love! Nay, do not move, do not 
speak. Let me tell thee how I have seen 
thee in my dreams, and how when I was 
awake thou hast always been present 
with me and always enfolded in my heart. 
Could I look toward heaven and not 
192 


see thine eyes ? Ah ! thou art indeed my The 
heaven, Angela! thou knowest that I \o\tEnd of 
thee. Thou hast known it long. ^rnaud' s 

thou knewest it in the beginning. Smtly ^est, 
thy heart told thee why I sought thee 
when thou wert in thy prison. Thou 
canst not say me nay. Thou shalt not. 

I will not let thee speak. Ah 1 yes, I will, 
those lips are not unkind. There is no 
sternness in those eyes. Angela ! my 
own I tell me that thou lovest me.’' 

‘‘ Oh, Arnaud 1 I fear thou knowest 
what I have hardly dared to let mine own 
heart know. Thou hast come upon me 
unawares. Thou hast surprised my secret. 

Only the flowers in the cloister and the 
field knew it before. How didst thou 
know it so soon ? Thou art a thief 
Thou hast stolen it in the cloister or by 
the river when I knew not thou wert nigh, 
even as I thought not to see thee here, 
among the poppies, where first I saw thee. 

Why earnest thou hither, Arnaud ? ” 

“ Nay, love, I know not. Why earnest 
thou 

I know no more than thou dost, but 
I think it was to gather poppies.” 

“ Thou dost not need them, sweet ; thy 
13 193 


The lips are redder far, nor dost thou need 

End of the violets that pale beside thine eyes. 

Arnaud' s But thou hast found my love. It is all 
^est, thine. Tell me thou wilt take it, tell me 
with a kiss.*' 

He rose from his knees, and put his 
arm about her. For a moment their 
lips met in love’s first kiss ; then her 
beautiful head fell upon his shoulder, and 
there was a silence broken only by the 
throbbing of their hearts. 

“ Ah, Arnaud,” she said at last, “ is it 
right that I should love thee? Was it 
right that I loved thee even in my prison ? 
I know not why. I thought it was sin, 
but my heart would not be still. Tell 
me the reason, for thy heart knows it. 
If it was wrong I must go back and do 
penance until I sin no more.” 

‘‘ Love is its own reason, my darling. 
It is like the wind that bloweth where it 
listeth. Only God knows whence it came 
or whither it goes. It is enough that 
thou lovest me, and I love thee. There 
is no wrong in such a love. Let there 
be no fear in thine heart, for perfect love 
casteth out fear.” 

“ Oh, Arnaud, yes, I know that what 
194 


thou sayest is true, else would I not be The 
here, nor would I have listened to thy End of 
words, though I longed to hear them. Arnaud" s 
But I fear it is not right to give myself to ^est. 
happiness when the sad sisters are still 
there behind the stern walls and I might 
help them, if I went to them again, and 
gave myself to them. I fear I should go 
back and comfort them if I can.” 

She drew away from him with averted 
face, and he trembled at the thought that 
she might leave him even now, although 
his heart told him that could not be, since 
she had confessed her love. 

Angela, thou sayest they need thee. 

All who have known thee must long for 
thee, but they do not need thee as I do. 

Have they not renounced life ? If they 
wish for it again, are they not free, as thou 
wert, to come forth and seek it once 
more? Thou canst give them nothing 
but consolation in approaching death. 

To me thou givest life itself, and all that 
makes it worth the living. Thou wouldst 
not dare to ruin the life which God has 
put in thine hand. Surely his message 
is too plain. Thou canst not shut thine 
ears to it. I cannot live without thy love. 

19s 


The 
End of 
A maud's 
^est. 


Thy beauty alone can inspire the work 
God has given me to do here/’ 

He did not need to plead so long, for 
her heart was on his side, nor could she 
longer resist its voice. 

“ Come with me to the castle,” she 
said at last. “ Let us seek my father’s 
blessing.” 

Hand in hand they went from among 
the poppies, through the green meadows, 
under the great trees, down again to the 
joyous river in ‘‘that new world which is 
the old.” They went through the little 
village, and came to the drawbridge of 
the castle. It was lowered for their en- 
trance. They passed beneath the great 
gate under the tower, and stood together 
for a moment in the court-yard, that was 
full of sunshine. Bright, joyous spirits 
of life and love seemed these two, come to 
gladden the grim walls that rose about 
them, and bring light and peace to the 
castle halls, that were gloomy and still in 
long loneliness. 

Angela and Arnaud went up the winding 
stair in the turret that led to her father’s 
chamber. Count Raimond was praying 
before the altar in the niche. He heard 
196 


the opening of the door. Rising from The 
his knees, he turned and saw his daughter of 
standing there, with Arnaud beside htr.Arnaud's 
He had been blessing her for coming to^uest, 
save his life, and fervently had he prayed 
for her happiness. In the deep tender- 
ness of Angela’s eyes, in Arnaud’s glance 
of passionate love, he saw the answer to 
his prayer. 

‘‘ Father, we have come to seek thy 
blessing.” 

“ Come hither, my children. Gladly 
will I give the blessing ye ask, for I see 
that love has brought you to each other. 

It is well that joy and peace should come 
to you after long suffering. Mine own 
heart rejoices with you.” 

They went and knelt before him by 
the altar. He laid his hands upon their 
heads and blessed them. The light that 
came through the painted window fell full 
upon the happy father as he bent above the 
kneeling lovers, so radiant in their beauty 
and their youth. 

Never had the altar’s rainbow seemed 
so full of promise as in that bright 
moment. 

The simple story of their love and 

197 


The their meeting in the field of the poppies 

End of soon was told, and a gladness long 

Arnaud's unknown came to Count Raimond’s heart 
^est. as he heard it, a gladness that he knew 
would dwell there always till he died. 

When their sweet talk was done and 
the Count wished to rest, Arnaud left 
Angela there and sought his father and 
mother that he might tell them of the 
great new joy that had come into his life. 
There is no need to tell of the gladness that 
filled their simple hearts as they heard his 
story. The peace of love that had come 
to the castle came also to the cottage. 



ARNAUD PROMISES 
AN ALTARPIECE 

IE next day Arnaud 
went to the church to 
take up his work again. 

He found the old 
monk quite out of pa- 
tience, and grumbling to 
himself as he worked. 

Where hast thou been so long ? 
Thou knowest well I can do naught with- 
out thee. The pictures will never be 
finished if thou dost spend thy time wan- 
dering I know not where.” 

Arnaud said nothing. He only smiled. 
Surprised at his silence, the old man turned 
from his painting and looked at Arnaud. 
In the young man’s face was joy and hope 
and inspiration. He seemed like another 
being. 

What has come to thee, my son ? — for 
surely thou lookest like one who has seen 

199 


Arnaud 
Promises 
an Altar- 
piece, 


a vision, and the spell of its beauty is still 
upon thee/’ 

‘‘ I have seen a vision, father, a fairer 
vision than thou canst believe, and I have 
found a love tenderer than I thought 
could be on earth. I found again Count 
Raimond’s daughter Angela, whom I loved 
long ago, but thought I had lost forever. 
She has promised to be my wife.” 

Indeed I rejoice with thee, my son. 
I am glad that thou hast found happiness, 
for I know thou hast suffered long. 
And now I suppose you will leave the 
old painter, you will work no longer in 
the Templars’ church, for your heart is 
full of Count Raimond’s daughter, and you 
will forget all else. I shall be left alone 
again, and I cannot finish the work, nor 
can I hope to see the picture over the altar.” 

Arnaud only smiled again and looked 
lovingly at his aged master. 

“ What is it, my son ; why do you 
smile ? Do you think it is sweet for me 
to work on here alone, and to know the 
beautiful dream I have dreamed will never 
come to pass ? ” 

Nay, I smile because I love thee, and 
I know now I can bring joy to thine heart, 
200 


and to my own. The picture ^oxiArnaud 
dreamest of shall be painted, for I Promises 
found the secret of beauty that I sought. Altar- 
It is true that I am glad because I Xov^ftece, 
and am loved ; but I am glad too because 
my art is also blessed, for at last the high- 
est beauty has been revealed to me. Listen, 
and I will tell thee all. 

When first I saw Angela long ago I 
was dazzled by the beauty of her face and 
form, and I longed to paint her ; but she 
was taken from me ere I had half learned 
to know what her beauty really was. I 
had only seen her eyes bluer than heaven’s 
depths, the golden glory of her hair, the 
snowy whiteness of her neck, the lovely 
outlines of her figure. Ah ! indeed it was 
no wonder that I saw no more in the little 
while we were together. It was enough 
to see that, for never had I dreamed that 
anything on earth could be so beautiful. 

I knew not then that any higher beauty 
was possible. 

“ But she vanished from my sight. She 
was buried in a living tomb. I sought 
her there, but she would not come forth. 

Then the Archbishop sent me away far 
up among the mountains, and I dwelt 

201 


Arnaud among the Cagots. Nay, do not tremble 
Promises and shrink from me. They are not what 
an Altar- thou thinkest. Among them was a 
piece, maiden who was more beautiful than I 
can tell thee, and I painted her again and 
again ; but I was not satisfied. At first I 
knew not why ; but at last I saw that I 
was painting only what delighted my eye. 
There was no high purpose kindled in me. 
There was no uplifting power in my work 
for me or for others. I was painting only 
for the pleasure of the ravished senses. 
Soon I knew it was not good for me or 
for the maiden to do this, and I fled from 
there lest mischief should befall. And I 
was sad because of it and I suffered, for I 
knew I had sinned, and I feared the high- 
est secret of beauty would be forever hid- 
den from me because of my sin and my 
blindness. But God was merciful to me, 
and I learned to wait in patience. Now 
Angela is with me, and I have come to 
know why beauty like hers inspires and 
uplifts. In it are all the charms of form 
and color, but there is besides a sacredness 
of purity. There shines through it the 
beauty of the spirit within. It is this 
beauty that I will seek to paint in the pic- 
202 


ture thou dost long for. Now, I have toXdiArnaud 
thee. Art thou content ? Promises 

“ It is a strange tale, my son; 1 under- an Altar- 
stand it not, for I have dwelt always \npiece, 
my cell, and in the church. I have been 
peaceful and content, and I doubt if I 
would have been happier had I gone 
among the Cagots and been out in the 
storm, and in that fearful cave like thee. 

But it is true I could not paint the picture 
for the altar, and I was unhappy because I 
could not do it. Now thou sayest it will 
be painted, and that will surely bring me 
peace again. Let us go to work at once.” 

“Nay, father, not yet. Let us finish 
these decorations first, and then afterward 
I will paint the picture. It will not be 
long. We have carried this work so far 
that we can go on in patience for yet a 
little while that we may finish it.” 

The old man grumbled and muttered 
to himself that young men did not know 
what patience and waiting meant to old 
men, who might die any minute ; but he 
was soon reconciled, and their work went 
on for a time quietly and peacefully as 
before. But there was a new spirit even in 
the decorative work of the young painter. 

203 


THE ANNUNCI- 
ATION 

FTER their marriage, 
Arnaudand Angela dwelt 
with Count Raimond in 
the castle. 

It was a time of joy 
and peace, of life and of 
hope in those ancient 
halls that had long been cold and desolate. 
Life with Angela meant to Arnaud not 
only the full sweetness of mutual love, 
but also inspiration for the art that was 
his life-work. Day by day the wonder 
of her beauty grew, and the longing to 
express it in color, form, and spirit became 
more intense. 

At last this longing began to take defi- 
nite form in his thought, and trembling 
between fear and hope he began a picture. 
The face and form before him were lovely 
with every charm of woman, but his art 
204 




would fail utterly if he only painted these, The 
and did not express that spirit of love 2indi Annunci- 
purity that gave to the outward loveliness ation. 
a beauty that was more of heaven than 
earth. 

Patiently he worked with the high light 
of inspiration in his eyes, until at last the 
painting was finished, so far as was pos- 
sible for his art to carry it. Then he 
saw that while he painted Angela he had 
thought of Mary, the woman who was 
almost divine. 

He had seen her in the clouds of 
heaven with glory all about her. Her 
form was draped in purest white and a 
mantle of blue drooped in many a grace- 
ful fold to her feet. Over her breast her 
hands were clasped as in prayer. The 
flowing sleeves of white fell back and left 
bare her snowy arms. Her face was 
raised toward heaven. The violet eyes 
were opened wide in passionate wonder 
and adoration. The beautiful lips were 
slightly parted, as in a trembling sigh of 
ecstasy. Over her low white brow the 
auburn hair was parted and thence un- 
confined fell about her head and neck, 
lingered for a moment on her shoulders, 

205 


The and floated thence until it was wholly 

Annunci- blended with the radiance of the opened 

ation, heavens. 

Beneath her feet and encircling her 

form were clouds that seemed wafted up- 
ward by some breath of heaven. And 
among these clouds were cherub faces that 
looked upon her with tender joy. Some, 
though child-like, were thoughtful as in 
wonder, others were radiant in gladness. 
The beauty of the child was blended with 
the beauty of the perfect woman, and herein 
was the thought of life and love. The 
heavenly light irradiated all the beauty and 
lifted it to realms divine. 

Though bathed in light and smiled 
upon by cherub faces, it was not an angel 
that was painted here, but a woman who 
could love and be loved, one to whom 
would come the sacred joys of mother- 
hood and in whose heart her husband 
would rejoice always. Mary was wor- 
shipped not only because she was the 
mother of God, but also for her perfect 
womanhood, which man always has adored 
and always will. It was the glorification 
of this womanhood that Arnaud had 
painted, nor could he be true to his sub- 
206 


ject without bringing it very close to The 
heaven while cherishing also its qy&cj Annunci- 
earthly charm. ation. 

When the picture was finished, Arnaud 
doubted much whether the old monk 
would be pleased to see it above the altar, 
for it was not at all like the pale emaciated 
saints which usually were in the church 
and chapels. Nor was it a madonna, for 
the Christ-child had not yet come. No; 
it was Mary as the angel saw her when he 
brought the message from the Lord. 

Arnaud had been painting the decora- 
tions in the chancel with the monk all 
this time while he was working on his 
picture in the castle. True, he gave only 
a part of his time to the work in the 
church and he said nothing about the 
picture. 

The old monk became very impatient, 
and grumbled more and more, saying he 
would not live to see the altarpiece of his 
dream, if it did not come soon. He was 
getting very old. The days were passing 
quickly and nothing was done. 

One morning very early, before the 
monk had begun his work, Arnaud 
brought the picture to the church and 

207 


The placed it above the altar. Then he hid 
Annunci- himself behind a column in the nave and 
ation, awaited the coming of the old painter. 

At last the door opened, and he came in 
with slow and faltering step. He took 
up his palette and his brushes and turned 
toward the chancel. 

Suddenly he stopped, and put his hand 
before his eyes like one dazzled. Then 
he fell on his knees, and lifted his eyes 
again toward the altar. The vision that 
had startled him was still there, and he 
began to pray. It was not long ere he 
knew it was not a vision, but the picture 
of his dreams. 

Then he rose to his feet again, and 
Arnaud stood beside him. 

‘‘Art thou content, father?** said the 
young painter. 

“ Ah, my son ! ** said the old monk in 
a broken voice, “ methought I saw the 
Mother of the Lord. Now may I depart 
in peace, for more than the beauty that I 
dreamed of is above the altar that I 
love.** 


208 


THE PICTURE’S MESSAGE 
TO SARANDE 


H e next Sunday was a 
•right and beautiful day 
n the spring-time. Very 
arly in the morning the 
"agots left their moun- 
ain home and came 
downward through the 
gorge on their way to worship in the 
Templars’ church. Benate was quite 
feeble now, and needed Sarande’s help over 
the rough places in the road. The old 
mother could no longer go with them. 
She stayed alone by the fireside. The Ca- 
got girl was not at peace. Her pride had 
been broken, her love spurned, and she 
was defiant and angry; yet was there a 
tenderness within her not known before 
Arnaud came, and it had softened her 
wild nature. As she passed the woods 
where she had been with him that day 
14 209 


The when he painted her by the pool, a dreamy 

Picture's softness came to her dark eyes, and her 
Message heart beat so quickly that she pressed 
to her hand upon it passionately. The 

SarandL great white mountains that he loved were 
about her, and they were still flushed with 
the light of the dawn. They had been 
more beautiful to her ever since that time 
because of his love for them. Then there 
was the leaping, sparkling river that seemed 
to carry her heart with it to him who was 
far away. Ah ! there was something far 
different from anger deep down in the 
maiden's thoughts, and Sarande knew it, 
that beautiful Sunday morning, as she 
walked through the valley to the church. 

At last they came to the rampart, and 
entering under the low arch they were 
soon again within the little chapel. 

There seemed an unusual stir in the 
church. There was more light than was 
common, nor was the music the same as 
on other Sundays. Yet it was not a great 
feast day, and there seemed no reason 
for a festal service. Often the singing of 
the Templars was marred by sternness, 
and sometimes it seemed an exultant 
battle-cry ; but to-day it was softer, though 
210 


full of fervor and intensity. Sarande The 
listened in wonder. Her father knelt hy Picture" s 
the wall, and through the little o^tmngMessage 
he saw the altar. It was a blaze of light, to 
but there was something above it t\i2itSarandL 
seemed brighter than the light itself It 
seemed to the old man as if he were look- 
ing into heaven. 

“ What is it, father ? said Sarande. 

“ Daughter, I know not. There is an 
angel over the altar, as I think.” 

Oh, let me look, I pray thee.” He 
gave her place, and Sarande, kneeling, 
looked upon Arnaud’s picture. 

In a moment the maiden knew the 
truth. Her heart told her with the quick 
sympathy of love. Here was the passion 
of his love as well as the ecstasy of his 
soul. Those violet eyes! — they seemed 
a heaven of tenderness. And the pure 
uplifted brow bright with a light divine 
— ah, that was hardly the beauty of 
woman ! yes, it was, but it was far more. 

Long she knelt there, looking on the 
picture as the light fell full upon it and the 
Templars' love-softened hymn rose and 
died away among the arches and the 
columns. 


2II 


The 

Picture s 
Message 
to 

Sarande, 


Then there was a struggle in her heart. 
Her passion rose again within her, and 
she could not bear to think that he loved 
another. 

“ Ah, yes, she is beautiful,” was her 
thought, but he said I was beautiful. 
Hour after hour he looked on what he 
called my beauty ; and while he looked 
upon me, even while he painted, he was 
as one in a dream. How dared he leave 
me, how could he leave me after that 
She put her hands before her eyes to shut 
out the picture. She would not look 
upon it more. She would banish from 
her mind the woman who had come be- 
tween her and her love. 

But she stayed kneeling there, and 
though she would not look she still saw 
those deep blue eyes, that calm white brow. 
And then at last another thought came, — 
a thought of shame and deep humiliation, 
for she remembered that she had humbled 
herself before him and offered him her 
love unsought. In an agony of repent- 
ance she forced herself again to look upon 
this picture, and she knew the woman there 
could be true and high and pure even in 
her passion. She felt that the love of 
212 


such a one must uplift and not degrade. The 
There was more than love in that heavenly 
face, — there was inspiration ; and Sarande 
herself felt that it was lifting her up even to 
against her will. At first she had SarandL 
only the face, but now she began to feel 
the glory of light that was about it, and 
she knew why such a light was there, — a 
light that seemed to come from heaven. 

As she looked longer she became more 
calm, and the wild jealous passion that 
had swept over her was stilled. There 
was here a spirit that had never before 
touched the wild Cagot girl, and she was 
beginning to admit its power. At last 
she thought, — 

“ I never could have yielded him to 
any other but to her, to her ! Ah, she is 
not a poor weak woman like me. She is 
like no other that mine eyes have ever 
seen. I know she will give him the 
highest gift love has to give. Perhaps 
God will quiet my heart at last, and let 
me think of his happiness in peace.” 


213 



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PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, 
CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS, IN 
JUNE, MDCCCXCVII ^ ^ ^ 




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